Errors of Judgement
by Joodiff
Summary: When Grace is injured during a CCU investigation, Boyd has to deal with the wrath of his superiors, his own guilt and anxiety, and a face from his past... Rated T for language. Complete. Enjoy!
1. Chief Suspect

**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 **A/N:** _You can blame Got Tea for this story. She wanted me to do it._ :)

* * *

 **Errors of Judgement**

by Joodiff

* * *

 **1 - Chief Suspect**

Waking up with her next to him is still a novelty. A very pleasant novelty that Boyd is happy to take a few minutes to savour, despite the nightmarish prospect of the long and difficult day ahead of them. Wise enough to know that there will be more than enough time for stress and exhaustion later, instead of prising himself out of the bed's warm embrace, he does the exact opposite, burrowing further under the covers until he can mould himself around the soft contours of her body. Grace makes a sleepy noise, presses herself back against him. It doesn't matter to Boyd whether she's fully awake or not, only that they share a few quiet, intimate moments of togetherness before the day duly sets them in opposition the way he fully expects it to.

He slips an arm around her waist, not too tight, but possessive nonetheless. Enough to encourage her into even closer contact with him, not quite enough to fully rouse her from her drifting semi-consciousness. The warmth of her, the scent of her, the soft, sensual smoothness of her skin… he enjoys it all while he can. Erotic in a languid, easy sort of way that's more agreeable than urgent, despite the predictable physical effect the heady combination of speculation and sensation has on him. Tonight, Boyd thinks. Tonight there will be more time, and doubtless some apologies and reparations to be made. On both sides, probably.

He concentrates on her bare shoulder for a moment, taking the time to explore its gentle curve with his lips. She stirs, mumbles a sleepy, irritable, "Tickles…"

It's fascinating, seeing her like this. Drowsy, dishevelled, and completely unguarded. He doesn't think he'll ever tire of it. So different from the side of her he's so used to seeing in working hours. He wonders if she ever thinks the same about him, but now isn't the time for such thoughts, not when he can better amuse himself by tracing an uneven line of light kisses along her shoulder and up the exposed side of her neck. She twitches, makes a half-hearted effort to shrug him off. Allowing himself a quick grin at her expense, he tries a soft, "Grace…?"

"Mm."

"It's nearly seven. Time to wake up."

"Mm," she says again. Boyd waits for further comment, but it never comes. Instead, she settles again, quite obviously intent on returning to her dreams. It should exasperate him, but somehow… Then she undulates back against him with far more intent than he could ever have anticipated and his focus instantly shifts. There's no doubt whatsoever that it's quite, quite deliberate, designed to seize his interest and hold onto it. It's a complete and instant success, disrupting any lingering notion he still has of getting out of bed before the alarm on the bedside table starts to shrill.

No words needed. Not a single damn one.

He surrenders to the inevitable quickly and without a fight.

-oOo-

The morning meeting scheduled for nine doesn't start until nearer half-past, and by the time Grace is finally settled with the rest of the team, Boyd is much closer to wanting to strangle her than to kiss her. Though he wouldn't ever attempt either in front of Spencer, Stella, and Eve, all of whom are exchanging cautious but meaningful looks behind his back at his determined non-reaction to their colleague's late arrival. He can see each and every one of them reflected in the evidence board's glass, and it does little to improve his increasingly bad mood. How can a day that started so promisingly already have degenerated so bloody far so bloody fast?

"So," Spencer says, shuffling through the pile of papers in front of him, "I've finally got hold of Webb's prison records, and it seems that he was a model prisoner from day one."

Wondering when it was that it stopped being his prerogative to deliver the opening statement at such meetings, Boyd turns his back on the evidence board and surveys the small cadre of people gathered around the squad room's central block of tables. He has a considered measure of respect and affection for each and every one of them, but this morning everything from Eve's unconscious pen-tapping to Stella's wide-eyed enthusiasm is scraping across his already frayed nerves. It's a huge effort to keep his mounting displeasure to himself, but he just about manages it. After all, it's not their fault that he's being hounded on a daily basis by the DAC's office, or that the media have discovered that the badly-flawed investigation into the notorious King's Street murders has been reopened. Nor is it anyone's fault but his own that his diary for the day is so full that he has no damn idea how he's going to find the time to interview David Webb again without cancelling something equally important and pressing.

"That's not uncommon," Grace says, putting on her reading glasses and taking the sheaf of papers offered to her. Watching, Boyd can't help being struck once again by the differences between her work persona and –

The loud ringing of the phone buried deep in the inner pocket of his jacket interrupts both his private thoughts and Grace's measured explanation. Fishing out the offending device, he almost groans when he sees the name clearly displayed on the tiny screen. Waving off the quizzical glances being directed at him, he heads rapidly towards his office, closing the glass-panelled door behind him as he answers with a sharp and completely unnecessary, "Boyd."

"Peter," a tired, familiar female voice says, its distinctive cadence stirring a thousand bittersweet memories. "The stonemasons have been in contact again."

Something in his chest tightens. It's not his imagination, he's sure. It's a physical reaction, one that threatens to half-cripple him for a moment. A quick, obstinate and very deep breath provides a temporary respite, allows him to respond, "I told you – "

"I _know_ what you told me," is the immediate and tetchy reply, "but decisions have to be made, and ignoring it won't make it go away. _Any_ of it."

She's right. He knows she is. Doesn't stop her weary composure infuriating him. Why today of all bloody days? He draws another deep breath, searching for equilibrium. Striving for an equanimity he doesn't feel, he says, "Mary – "

"No," she interrupts. "I'm not listening to any more excuses, Peter. It's been three months since the funeral and – "

" – _and_ ," he cuts in, "we were told it would be at least _six_ before we could erect a headstone."

"I know that. But we need to tell them what – "

"Tell them what the hell you like," he raps out, the very last slim threads of his patience snapping under the strain. "I really don't fucking care. Our son is _dead_ , Mary. Who the hell cares what's written on his bloody gravestone?"

"You're such a – "

He doesn't give her the chance to finish the – well-deserved – insult. A quick movement of his thumb and the call is ended. Quick. Simple.

Painful.

Of course he cares. He cares so much that it's –

A gentle tap on the door behind him brings Boyd out of his moment of black, self-loathing despair. Stella. He waves her into his office with an abrupt motion, not at all sure he can control his simmering temper long enough to deal with whatever it is that she wants. Her expression is as cautious as her tone as she says, "Sir…?"

"Tell Grace she's going to do the interview with Jackson. You can sit in."

"I thought you…" Stella's voice trails away in the face of the baleful look he gives her. "Yes, sir. What about Webb? Spencer and I could go and see him this – "

"No. I'll meet up with Spence later and we'll do it," he tells her, feeling no need to explain his decision. His unit, his command, his decisions. "Has Eve got anything more from the DNA tests yet?"

"I don't know," Stella admits, starting to look and sound flustered. She's young, he knows, and still not as confident as she could be. Should be. Whatever.

Glaring, he shakes his head at her. "Well, go and bloody find out. Christ, do I really have to do _everything_ around here myself…?"

-oOo-

"Shouting at Stella," Grace scolds, less than half an hour later as she advances towards his desk carrying two steaming mugs of what he hopes is very black, very strong coffee, "won't change whatever it is that's put you in such a bad mood. I would have thought you'd have known that by now."

Ignoring the criticism, he asks, "So – is he a psychopath?"

"Webb?" she inquires, putting down both mugs and settling herself into her customary chair opposite him. "I take it you don't want to hear that only a series of specialist psychiatric interviews and diagnostic tests could actually establish that in any legal sense?"

"Grace."

She gazes at him for a moment, and he's well aware of the level of careful concern being concealed behind the façade of professional calm. She worries about him far more than she should. It's both infuriating and endearing. He waits, and she eventually gives in and asks, "Gut instinct?"

"Yeah."

She nods. "Definitely. He has a remarkable ability to accurately mimic the kind of emotions the rest of us actually _feel_ , but they don't mean anything to him. He's a highly-skilled manipulator, very capable of getting people to cooperate with him without any need for physical coercion."

"Which is how he managed to lure his victims into meeting him alone."

"That's supposition, Boyd."

"Yeah, well, assume that I'm _supposing_ that he's our killer. Work with me here, Grace, for God's sake."

"In which case, yes. That's how he did it." A pause, followed by a sombre, "Don't underestimate how dangerous he could be if he starts to feel cornered."

He sighs, rubs his eyes. It doesn't help. "Why do you think I'm going to handle it myself?"

Grace's response is quiet. "I'm just… suggesting… that you bear in mind that barrelling back into his flat with the intention of strong-arming him into a confession would not be… prudent."

"I _know_ that. Look, we're not in a position to nick him, not yet, but I'm hoping that it won't be long before we _are_ … until then…" He sighs, shakes his head slightly. "Look, I just want to have another chat with him."

"Yes, well… Your idea of a quiet chat and mine are two totally different things."

He leans back in his chair. The day's barely begun and he already has a sullen, nagging headache that matches the dark grimness of his mood. Staring at his untouched mug of coffee, he breaks the sudden strained silence with, "That was Mary on the phone earlier. She's chasing me about the headstone."

A small pause is followed by, "I thought you couldn't do anything about that until…"

He knows why she doesn't finish the sentence. Looking up to meet her eye, he says, "…the ground's settled?"

"Boyd…"

It's one of those rare moments when she simply doesn't know what to say to him, he knows. He sympathises with her, in a distant, abstract sort way. He's dealt with too many grieving, traumatised relatives over the course of his career not to understand the awful significance of saying the wrong thing at the wrong moment. Reaching out for his coffee at last, he says, "If she knew as much about the realities of death and decomposition as I do…"

She grimaces. "Don't."

"True, though, isn't it? There was a very good reason why I wanted him cremated."

Grace's reply is a gentle but firm, "You've got to stop doing this to yourself."

Boyd doesn't offer a response, just sips his coffee, relishing its distinctive bitterness. She's helped him far more than she probably knows in the last couple of months, and he's grateful, but… He stops the chain of thought before it can escalate, before it starts to choke the life out of him. Not meeting her gaze, he says, "I want you and Stella to talk to Jackson. Find out what he was _really_ doing the night Amy Hughes died."

"All right," Grace says, "but I thought we'd discounted him?"

"As a suspect, yes. As a potential witness, no. His alibi is so full of holes…"

"…we could use it as a colander," Grace finishes for him. "What time will you be finished at the Yard?"

Boyd shrugs. "Depends on just how thoroughly they want to haul me over the coals for our supposed lack of progress, doesn't it?"

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	2. Maple Court

**2 - Maple Court**

Maple Court does not live up to its name. It's an ugly concrete ten-storey, L-shaped block of flats in the kind of brutal utilitarian style that was so popular back in the 'sixties. Surrounded by swathes of patched tarmac and the odd strip of straggly, litter-strewn grass, there isn't a single maple tree anywhere in sight. Surveying the building and its environs with bleak dissatisfaction, Boyd wonders if any maple saplings were indeed planted when the development was brand new. If so, they have long ago disappeared – forgotten victims of neglect or vandalism. A Bermondsey boy himself, he wonders, too, what happened to all the post-War hope and optimism that existed when Maple Court and all the places just like it were first built. What became of the sense of community and all the old-fashioned values he remembers from his youth. Maybe they still exist… somewhere.

The sound of an approaching vehicle makes him turn, the old memories fading away again as he watches Grace park her car neatly in the space next to his. Her parking style reflects the way she drives – precise, economical and without any show. It infuriates him sometimes, when he feels she's dawdling, but mostly it amuses him – not because way she drives indicates over-caution, but because employing it in London requires considerable skill and patience. As she alights from the car, he half raises his hand in greeting, gratified by the warm, easy smile she gives him in return before adopting her usual calm, intellectual demeanour. As she draws near, he frowns and asks, "Where's Spence?"

"Ah," she says, "about that…"

Boyd doesn't need to be told more. "You're fucking kidding me, right?"

"It seems Jackson doesn't have much time for psychologists," Grace says with the slightest of shrugs. "He point blank refused to say a word while I was there. In the end Spence took over from me."

He can't help glaring at her. "And neither of you thought it might be a good idea to apprise _me_ of this fact?"

"You were with the DAC," she explains. "We didn't think interrupting would be prudent, under the circumstances."

It's an effort to control the hot spike of temper that threatens to manifest itself in a torrent of loud expletives. Instead, he manages a tight, controlled, "Please tell me he's on his way?"

Grace shakes her head. "He's still interviewing Jackson. We decided – "

"'We'?" Boyd interrupts, no longer bothering to hide his growing fury. " _'We_ decided'?"

She ignores his too-evident irascibility. "He's talking, Boyd. Jackson's actually _talking_. It could be exactly the break we've been waiting for."

He stares at her for a long, tense moment, reading the quiet determination in her stance, the edge of cool defiance in her composed expression. She's ready and willing to defend the unilateral decision taken in his absence, he can see that, and that's why he takes a deep, calming breath before he growls, "Fine."

"That's it?" she asks, the surprise clear in her voice. "No temper tantrum?"

The grinding headache that's been plaguing him on and off all day is back, thudding deep inside his skull. "Would it do me any bloody good?"

"No. But that's never stopped you before."

"Don't push it, Grace," he warns. "I'm not happy about this. Not at _all_."

"So noted." She waits for a moment, then prompts, "So…? Are we going to go and talk to Webb again, or are we just going to stand here glaring at each other for the rest of the afternoon?"

Boyd stares up at the dozens and dozens of windows looming above them, considering their options. Instinct and experience are telling him one thing, the latest stinging castigation from his superiors another. _Best to wait,_ he thinks. He believes everything Grace has said about just how dangerous Webb could be when provoked, and the very last thing he wants to do is put her – put _both_ of them – in danger. Better to wait until Spencer has finished with Jackson. But that could be another hour, or even more. And if they go back to headquarters now they will have wasted the –

"Well?" Grace asks. "Boyd?"

"Come on," he snaps, already in motion, "let's get it done. But we're not pissing about up there, Grace. He says or does anything even slightly off, and I'm nicking him first and worrying about the whys and wherefores later."

-oOo-

Even to Boyd, David Webb does not look like a murderer, let alone a potential serial killer. He's plump, though not exactly fat, barely of average height, and his receding sandy hair and mild, amiable smile give him a cherubic look that's hard to reconcile with Grace's detailed psychological profile of a dark, calculating personality that's more than capable of getting exactly what it wants by any means necessary. As before, he welcomes them into his flat with a mixture of affability and diffident bemusement, as if he has no idea why they could possibly want to talk to him, but is perfectly prepared to be as helpful as he can be. Something about his manner would make Boyd uneasy even if he didn't have good reason to think he was dealing with a very clever and sadistic killer.

Allowing himself to be ushered into the small but exceptionally clean and tidy living room ahead of Webb and Grace, Boyd notices again the even, regimented lines of alphabetically-ordered books, the symmetrically-placed furniture, and the incongruous but neatly-framed and aligned collection of comic book prints that dominate the very centre of the room's longest wall. No other wall-hangings, pictures, or photographs anywhere to be seen. It's not the strangest room he's seen in his career, not by a long, long way, but it's distinctly… odd. Like Webb himself.

"You're lucky," the smaller man says, following Grace into the room, "I was just about to go out. A few minutes later and you wouldn't have caught me."

"We're sorry to inconvenience you," Grace says, and even Boyd nearly believes her, she sounds so sincere, "but if you could spare us just a few minutes of your time…?"

"Of course," Webb replies, but his eyes flicker back towards the doorway to the hall and the only exit, not towards the square modern clock sitting right in the centre of the otherwise empty shelf above the small, flatscreen television that had remained switched on throughout their last visit, the sound muted, but the picture ever-changing.

 _He knows,_ Boyd thinks, the sudden, certain realisation a calm and icy one. _Oh, Christ, the evil little bastard knows that we know what he did..._

He's been in this sort of situation before, though rarely without the sort of well-trained, reliable back-up that Grace simply can't provide. He wants to glance at her, wants to confirm that her thoughts mirror his, but he doesn't dare risk Webb seeing and understanding. Instead, he half-turns away from both of them, making an ostentatious show of looking at the framed prints on the wall and taking the opportunity to shift himself subtly closer to Webb without actually appearing to do so. If he can encroach even a tiny bit on the other man's personal space in the small room, he knows he can force a subconscious step away from the door. One step should be enough if he can then side-step to almost – _almost_ – block Webb's only escape route. He looks round at Webb again, using the motion to edge another tiny fraction to his right, says, "My boy was into this sort of stuff. American comics. There used to be a place in the West End where he could buy back issues and all the latest imports. Used to cost me a damn fortune every time he managed to talk me into taking him there."

Webb steps back, possibly not even aware of doing so. "I buy online."

"Ah," Boyd says, facing him fully and claiming another fraction of an inch. "That's got to be the smart thing to do nowadays. Eh, Grace?" He risks looking at her, and sees, very clearly, the veiled look in her eyes that tells him that she knows exactly what he's doing. Maybe isn't happy about it, but understands, and will play along. Anything to put them firmly back in control of the situation. In response to his query she nods, makes a quiet affirmative noise. Webb doesn't even glance at her. Deciding to try for another sliver of ground, Boyd makes half a step as he continues, "I used to read the _Eagle_ as a kid. Sixpence every Wednesday. Nearly broke my neck pretending to be Dan Dare on more than one occasion."

"You surprise me, Detective Superintendent," Webb says, his tone quiet and controlled. " _PC 49_ not more your style?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Boyd replies, shifting his weight enough to allow another tiny half-step as he remembers the eponymous fictional police officer's varied and exciting adventures. "But no, it was Dan Dare all the way for me."

Webb steps back, and this time it's a solid, deliberate step, unmistakably intentional, but he turns slightly, too, and a prickle of apprehension runs down Boyd's spine as he attempts to second-guess the man's next move. Yes, he's edged Webb away from the doorway to the hall a useful fraction, but that slight turn has taken Grace out of the man's peripheral vision and placed her almost directly in front of him. The prickle isn't decreasing in strength, either. Every instinct Boyd has is screaming at him, telling him that the situation is all kinds of wrong, that if he doesn't do something, and soon, they –

Too late. Too fucking _late_.

The gun just suddenly seems to be there in Webb's hand. Old-fashioned black service revolver, no doubt the Webley Mark IV .38 used in all four of the King's Street murders, according to Eve. A practical, efficient weapon, easily and cheaply available in the immediate post war years via the traditional no-questions-asked friend-of-a-friend route. Not a glamourous if deadly fashion accessory, but a reliable and easily-maintained utilitarian tool. It must have been tucked into the waistband of Webb's jeans, hidden by his oversized sweatshirt. All this, and much more goes through Boyd's mind in a split second. The split second before instinct and quick reflexes save his life. As he lunges to his right, twisting his body as he goes, the deafening roar of the first gunshot fills his head with sound, momentarily numbing all his other senses. Far too loud in the confined space.

Webb fires again, and misses again, but this time a sharp chip of plaster sears across Boyd's cheek, a momentary slice of hot pain, easily ignored. His ears may be ringing from the shots, but the rest of his senses have come roaring back into focus, and as Webb's arm swings round to find another target, Boyd rears up from a half-crouch, hurling himself at the armed man in the kind of solid, bone-crunching tackle that made him a considerable asset on the playing fields of his youth. It's thirty years – possibly more – since he played his last game of rugby, but it's the same accuracy and fearlessness that made him such a formidable player back then that drives him hard into Webb, deflecting his aim as he pulls the trigger a third time.

Again, it is instinct – instinct and training – that governs the way Boyd seizes the other man's wrist and forces his arm back hard against its natural range of movement. One thing Webb isn't, Boyd discovers almost instantly, is particularly strong. He has a slight age advantage, but Boyd is bigger and stronger, and, it seems, considerably fitter. The revolver clatters to the floor, skittering and spinning on the cheap, shiny, wood-effect laminate, and Boyd kicks it further away from them both for good measure. A heave, a twist, a basic knowledge of physics and human anatomy, and suddenly Webb is down on his knees, safely immobilised and bellowing in pain and fury. It's only then that a panting Boyd is able to look towards Grace… but she's not where she was. Not where he expects her to be.

She's on the floor, half-propped against the side of Webb's big leather armchair, and it's not her closed eyes that Boyd immediately notices – it's the spreading bloom of dark crimson already soaking through the blouse beneath the crumpled lapel of her coat.

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	3. Emergency Response

**3** **\- Emergency Response**

The mantra running through Boyd's head is clear and precise – Airway, Breathing, Circulation. The simplest and most fundamental rule for attempting to ensure the survival of a badly-injured casualty. It's reflexive, so thoroughly ingrained into him that he's able to act quickly and efficiently, his wild, dangerous anger transmuted into the icy focus and resolve that he needs. On the floor behind him Webb is still moaning and whimpering, his breathing laboured through his broken nose and bloodied lips, but Boyd is oblivious to it. Threat neutralised, Webb no longer matters to him, not in the stark moments of here and now when the life quite literally in his hands is still at such high risk. Airway and breathing checked and deemed secure, Boyd's attention has turned to the third element of the Holy Trinity.

The bullet – the third shot fired – appears to have hit Grace just below the right clavicle. Boyd doesn't investigate too closely. There's more blood on her clothes and on his hands than he cares to reflect on, but though the situation is clearly grave, he knows it could be far worse, and from what he sees he dares to assume that the subclavian artery is – currently – intact. It's a tiny positive in a relentlessly bad situation that's unlikely to improve any time soon. He uses her scarf, a lightweight, filmy thing that nevertheless compresses into a thick wad of fabric, to put pressure on the wound, his other hand wrestling his phone free from the inside pocket of his jacket. She moans, barely audible, and her eyelids flicker for a moment, but there's no real sign of returning consciousness.

Aware that every single second is precious now, Boyd doesn't waste time following standard communication protocol – he dials nine-nine-nine and barks his request for an ambulance to the calm control centre voice that answers. The transfer is quick, the woman he finds himself talking to thorough and professional. He gives her his rank and warrant number, a fast, reliable way to cut through the usual preliminary formalities, and is gratified by just how fast he is told that help is on its way. One bloodied hand keeping the makeshift dressing clamped to Grace's shoulder, the other clenched tight around his phone, Boyd answers the necessary questions with all the detached, professional composure expected of him. He deals with the situation the only way he can – by using iron-willed determination to lock down every trace of panic and emotion.

He dares to relinquish his grip on the blood-soaked scarf long enough to check the carotid pulse in Grace's neck. It's there, but it's weak and rapid, and he's shocked by how cold and clammy her skin already feels.

"Her blood pressure's dropping," he informs the disembodied voice still asking him questions, not caring how brusque he sounds. "I need help here, and _fast_."

"Is the casualty still breathing?"

But Boyd is no longer listening; abandoning his phone – still connected – on the floor, all his attention returns to Grace. Her complexion has gone beyond pale, beyond ashen, and he suspects that beneath the thin skim of lipstick, her lips are taking on a bluish tinge as her rapid breathing gets faster and shallower with every passing second. He's not a fool, he knows what's happening – despite his attempts to keep pressure on the wound, she's still bleeding, and as the blood loss continues she's going further and further into circulatory shock.

A guttural moan from behind him provides a sudden spur, and he snaps his head round, roaring at the barely-moving Webb, "Go and open the front door for the paramedics… then run if you want to, I don't fucking care… but if she _dies_ …"

They stare at each other in ferocious mutual loathing for a split second, one that feels like an eternity, a myriad of unspoken things passing between them. Comprehension, hatred, anger… too many things twisting together and projecting out into the hostile space between them.

"…you'll find me and kill me?" Webb rasps, blood still drooling from his battered, broken face. He laughs, short and harsh. "You know, I think you might actually have the balls to do it, _Detective Superintendent_."

" _Go_ ," Boyd screams at him, all the things he's holding under tight control momentarily breaking loose. Webb starts to scramble away, lurching unsteadily to his feet as he goes, but all Boyd is concentrating on is Grace.

She's not breathing.

 _Oh, Jesus fucking Christ…_

"Don't do this to me, Grace," he mumbles as he searches for her pulse again. He thinks he feels it, a faint butterfly flutter under the tips of his questing fingers, but maybe he's just imagining it? Either way, she is most certainly not breathing. He seizes hold of her – not gently – dragging her away from the chair she's still half propped against, and as her body slides on the laminate flooring it crumples down into a supine position. He doesn't notice how little she seems to weigh, how easily he's able to manhandle her, nor the wide viscous streak of blood her torso leaves on the wood veneer. Not hesitating for a second, he angles her head back, opening up her airway in preparation for what he's about to do, then places the heel of his right hand over the centre of her chest and covers it with his left. Interlacing his fingers, Boyd starts chest compressions, a new mantra running smoothly through his head – Compressions, Airway, Breathing.

It's far from the first time he's performed emergency CPR on someone, but the stakes have never been so high, the reality never so savage. Deep, straight-armed thrusts, each meticulously counted. A part – a very small part – of him is horrified by the amount of strength he's forced to use, and if there was any room in his mind for such a thing, he would be terrified by the likelihood of breaking her ribs or sternum. Count complete, he checks again – but Grace is still not breathing. It's time for the rescue breaths that could mean the difference between life and death, and as he pinches her nose closed and seals his mouth over hers, he is struck by the cold, awful realisation that he's giving the so-called 'kiss of life' to the woman he was kissing in an altogether different and much more pleasurable way only a little over six hours previously. The knowledge is a razor-sharp shard that pierces straight through him, almost freezes him, nearly breaks him.

Nearly, but not quite.

One breath, then a second, a quick check, and he returns to performing chest compressions. It's hard work, made infinitely harder by the high stress of the situation, and Boyd can feel the sweat breaking out under his jacket and shirt, can feel it starting to trickle down the back of his neck. He's breathing heavily, and his heart is beginning to race – whether from anxiety or from the sheer physical effort required he isn't sure – but the same can't be said for Grace. She remains unbreathing and unresponsive, eyes closed, skin drained of colour.

By the time he starts the fourth cycle of compressions, Boyd is starting to feel the first signs of weakness and tremors in the complaining muscles of his arms and shoulders. Worse, he's beginning to fear that he's fighting a losing battle, and it's that grim sense of impending failure that allows him to tap straight into the steely reserve of whatever it is that's got him through the very hardest times of his life.

He won't stop. He _can't_.

"You're not fucking dying on me," he pants, barely able to spare the effort, but needing the boost of adrenaline the gritty, angry defiance sends coursing through his body. "You hear me, Grace? I'm not letting you do this to me… You don't get away from me that easily…"

It's all nonsense, the curses and threats he calls down on her as he works, but it keeps him going, makes him seize onto what shred of hope there is and refuse to relinquish his obstinate hold on it. Boyd is many things, and he's rightly infamous for any number of them, none more than his hard-headed stubborn streak. Hasn't Grace herself shaken her head in despair at his bullish tenacity on any number of occasions?

He's so focused on his task that he doesn't hear the approaching footsteps, the voices. Doesn't have any idea that help has finally arrived until he sees the first glimpse of a green uniform, an intent, concerned face. Someone takes his arm, encourages him to stagger to his feet and let the paramedics take his place. Police uniforms, a sergeant's stripes, someone talking into a radio. The room spinning slowly around him, everything slightly distorted.

"Sir?" a calm voice says. "Detective Superintendent?"

Boyd doesn't recognise the sergeant, a lean, tough-looking man in his late thirties, but he recognises the unflustered, authoritative tone of voice. It pulls him back to reality, makes him look around himself, taking in the situation. The paramedics are working on Grace, their movements rapid but their coded conversation quiet and professional. No sign of panic, no indication of what's happening, whether or not they are winning the battle to save her. He looks at the sergeant again, hears himself say, "She's one of ours."

The man's expression changes a tiny but perceptible fraction. Comradeship. Understanding. He says, "The shooter's already been picked up. We'll need you to formally I.D. him, of course, but we're pretty sure it's him."

If she dies…

Oh, God… if she _dies_ …

"I did everything I could," Boyd says, but the words aren't meant for anyone but himself. It's all beginning to catch up with him, the shock, the stress, and he sways for a moment, causing the sergeant to catch his elbow in an effort to steady him. He doesn't shrug the man off, doesn't stop himself from being guided to where he can lean against the wall. Silent, uncritical support, freely given out of a sense of kinship.

One of the paramedics, a thin-faced woman with a prominent high forehead, briefly looks up to announce, "She's breathing."

-oOo-

"You've really surpassed yourself this time, Peter," Chief Superintendent Jack Donaldson's irritable voice growls in his ear. "What a complete and utter balls-up. Where the fuck are you, anyway?"

Tempted as he is to simply terminate the call, Boyd glowers straight ahead and snaps back, "In one of your area cars, behind the bloody ambulance. Where the hell did you think I'd be?"

"Still on scene where you're _supposed_ to be," is the sharp reply, "but I might have known that would be far too much to hope for. Call your damned dogs off – your team can't be involved in this. I got here to find your forensics woman – Lockhart, is it? – demanding access to the flat, and DI Rottweiler being a royal pain in the fucking arse."

"Then deal with it," Boyd retorts, in no mood to be lectured by his sometime friend, sometime adversary. They've known each other for the better part of twenty years, alternately leapfrogging each other to the next promotion, the next command. Currently Donaldson is marginally – _technically_ – ahead, but he's not a detective, can't preface his rank with the sobriquet he once coveted so much, and which Boyd worked so hard to earn early in his career.

" _You_ deal with it," is Donaldson's prompt and tetchy response. "They're _your_ rabble, _you_ sort them out. Fuck's sake, Peter… I've already had the DAC on the phone spitting fire and brimstone. This is your cock-up, not mine, and – "

Boyd is not interested in listening to the tirade. A simple button press cuts Donaldson off mid-sentence, and if the uniformed driver notices and is amused, he doesn't give either away. Boyd casts him a brief, baleful look anyway, but the driver steadfastly continues to concentrate on following the speeding ambulance through the heavy mid-afternoon traffic, intermittently using the car's wailing siren to reinforce the urgency of their passage across junctions and through traffic lights. Impatient as he is, there's nothing Boyd can say or do to speed up their progress – the driver keeps them right behind the ambulance through every congested twist and turn of the route.

The magnitude of what has happened is beginning to poke its way through his defences. At first he was too engrossed in doing what had to be done, and then he was too numbed by the initial shock, but now… Now it's all starting to press in on him, a crushing force pushing hard against all his emotional and psychological weaknesses. Anger, guilt, frustration, fear – Boyd is feeling them all as they finally reach the hospital. He's out of the marked police car and sprinting towards the rear doors of the ambulance almost before either is stationary, his only thought and instinct to get to Grace as fast as possible.

He's there when the doors open, when the hospital staff emerge from the building behind him, and when the paramedics rapidly unload their precious cargo. There's a lot of movement, a lot of voices, and he finds himself brusquely shouldered out of the way, something that would usually enrage him to the point of explosion, but there's no room in what he's feeling for such a selfish reaction. He doesn't understand the clipped, coded instructions being given, can't fully interpret what the paramedics are saying as they help in the inward-bound rush, but none of it sounds good. He tries to follow, but a firm hand on his arm prevents him, and he instantly snaps his head round to find out who dares to attempt to stop him. It's the police constable who drove him to the hospital. Not as young as Boyd had initially imagined, nowhere near as green. Taller than himself, and burly with it, the man's expression is set and calm. It's matched by the quiet, commanding tone of his voice as he says, "This way, sir. You can't go in there with them."

It works. Against all the odds, it works. Shrugging the impertinent hand off, Boyd heads for the other set of doors, the ones that lead to the Accident and Emergency reception area. He doesn't glance behind him to check, but he knows without a doubt that he's being followed.

-oOo-

"She arrested again in the ambulance," he says, wondering what Eve will make of the rigid flatness of his tone. "I'm waiting for the consultant to come and talk to me."

"That doesn't necessarily mean it's bad news," Eve's measured voice replies. She sounds every bit as composed as he expected her to, and it's soothing. A little, at least. "You've got to keep calm, Boyd. For Grace's sake."

He knows what she really means – don't antagonise the hospital staff, don't get angry and start shouting. He grunts in response, then asks, "Where's Webb?"

"Southwark nick. Spence tried arguing, but…" her voice trails away. Then she says, "One of us should be there with you. I could – "

"No," he interrupts, sharper than he intends. Stressed and anxious as he is, Eve doesn't deserve the brunt of his temper. He takes a steadying breath. "No. Get everything we have on Webb across to Donaldson's investigating team. I don't care who gets the kudos for nailing the bastard just as long as he _gets_ nailed. I'll call you if there's any news."

"Okay," is the quiet response. "If you see her, if you speak to her, tell her… you know."

"I will," he agrees. No further words needed on either side, they exchange curt farewells just before the door to the room Boyd has been waiting in opens to admit a slim young man in green scrubs. He doesn't look a day over twenty-five, though Boyd imagines he's probably older, and his wire-framed spectacles give him an almost comically studious air. But Boyd isn't laughing as he demands, "Well? Where's the bloody consultant?"

"She's on her way to see you," the young man assures him, glancing at the notes on his clipboard, "Mr… er…"

"Boyd."

"What?"

"Boyd," he repeats, struggling to contain his impatience. "That's my bloody name. Detective Superintendent Peter Boyd. Doctor Foley is a Home Office psychologist attached to my unit."

"Boyd," the doctor says, frowning.

"What are you struggling to understand about that?"

"Nothing," is the quick, apologetic reply, as the door behind him opens again. "Sorry. It's just a strange coincidence, that's all."

"Stranger than you think, Anthony," the woman joining them says. Mid-fifties, dark-haired, and eye-catchingly tall and lithe, she is both attractive and far too familiar. "Peter."

If fate isn't playing some kind of cruel joke on him, then… Well, whatever. Boyd's been a police officer for far too long to believe in far-fetched coincidences… and to _not_ believe in them. He meets her gaze, holds it. "Mary."

-oOo-

 _cont…_


	4. Mary

**4 - Mary**

"You did all the right things," she tells him, her manner brusque and cool, "and since you undoubtedly saved her life, I would have thought that not even _you_ could find a way to wallow in guilt and self-pity."

It stings, just as he knows it's supposed to. Glad that they are now alone in the small room, Boyd scowls at her. "When I want you to pass judgement on me, Mary, I'll let you know."

"Oh, for heaven's sake snap out of it," she orders. "It's a nasty wound, and it's going to require surgical debridement at the very least, but she's conscious and stable. I know how much you enjoy beating yourself up over this sort of thing, but it's just pure selfish self-indulgence."

Still scowling, he challenges, "You think so, do you? It's my bloody fault we were in there without back-up. I could've waited, but I didn't. God knows what the Yard's going to have to say about it, much less the fucking Home Office."

"There," Mary sneers, "and to think that for a brief moment I was almost stupid enough to believe that you were actually more concerned for _her_ than for yourself."

"Tell me something," he says, resisting the impulse to do as she expects and either storm out of the room or find something inanimate to punch, "when exactly did you start hating me quite so much?"

A shadow passes over her expression. It's quickly hidden, but Boyd sees it. When Mary replies, her tone is quieter and much less shrewish. "I don't hate you, Peter. God knows I've tried, and sometimes I'm sure you deserve it, but I don't hate you. I just don't _like_ you very much anymore."

He's tempted to tell her that the feeling's mutual, that he's not the only one who's changed for the worse over the years, but he doesn't have the energy for the bitter exchange that will assuredly follow. They are far too alike, temperamentally speaking – both fiery, quick to anger, not afraid to shout, or to speak their minds regardless of the damage they might do. Once upon a time the similarities drew them together, each equally fascinated by the other, but the reality… the reality of two such abrasive personalities living together under one roof was ultimately too much for either of them to bear. He says, "There's something you should know."

Mary arches a single elegant eyebrow at him. "Oh?"

"About Grace. Specifically, about… me and Grace."

Her imperturbable, bland expression doesn't change. "She came to the funeral, Peter. Since when was I unable to put two and two together and come up with four? Besides, there have been rumours for years."

Irked by her response, he retorts, "Well, that's all they were until very recently. Just bloody rumours."

"It's none of my business."

"You're still my wife," he points out, not bothering to hide his antipathy.

She sniffs in the most derisive way possible. "A minor technicality that I try not to dwell on too much, most of the time."

It's been the thorniest of thorny subjects in the past, but maybe that was when they both still cared enough to find any serious talk of divorce painful, best avoided. He stares at her for a moment, wondering if there was ever a moment when they could have successfully salvaged their marriage and made it work. If there was, it was years ago, when Luke was still a happy little boy doted on by both of them. Aware of the gathering gloom of his thoughts, Boyd gives himself a sharp mental shake and changes the subject with a blunt, "So, she's going to be fine?"

"I don't think I actually said _that_ , did I?" Mary chides, but perhaps she gives herself a similar shake because she follows the tart question with, "I've seen far worse gunshot wounds, but the shoulder is a tricky area. Lots of nerves and bony structures. Looking at the x-rays, though, I'd say she's been remarkably lucky. Pistol?"

"Old service revolver," Boyd confirms. "I'm expecting to hear that it was the same .38 Webley used in several prior offences."

"Low velocity, then. Much less tissue damage than with, say, a rifle bullet. Which isn't to say that it's not a serious injury."

"I didn't realise the bullet had gone straight through," he admits. "Christ, no wonder she was bleeding out. I didn't think to check for an exit wound."

"No reason why you would have done." Mary shrugs. "Even at close range it's not a foregone conclusion that a relatively small weapon like that would have that much punch. Something like a modern nine millimetre, however…"

Boyd shakes his head. "Jesus, Mary – you make it all sound so… mundane."

"Gun crime's on the increase in London, haven't you heard?"

He grimaces at the waspish note in her voice. "Let me guess, that's somehow my bloody fault, too?"

"In as much as the Met are singularly failing to – "

"Spare me the media hyperbole. Tell me about Grace."

" _Grace_ ," she says, placing heavy stress on the name, "will be going to theatre shortly. They'll carry out a thorough debridement, check to see if there's any damage we don't yet know about, then patch her up. Given her age, she'll probably spend the night in HDU and be moved onto a general ward tomorrow. All being well, she should be discharged in a couple of days."

"'All being well'?"

"It's not a minor injury, Peter, and no surgical procedure is without risk."

"Your bedside manner is still crap, you know that, don't you?"

"I don't like you enough to waste my time sugar-coating the truth."

Despite everything, Boyd's almost tempted to laugh at the quick, acerbic retort. There are good reasons why he fell for her, why he single-mindedly pursued her until she grudgingly deigned to spare him more than a brief, disinterested glance. Good reasons, too, why he asked her to marry him, despite the well-meaning advice of friends and relatives who plainly saw what he was completely blind to. He's about to speak when she says, "There's something else I need to tell you before you find out some other way."

A sharp sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach erases all Boyd's wandering thoughts. "About Grace? What? Mary…?"

She seems to almost sigh. "You saved her life, Peter. If you hadn't performed CPR she would have been dead on the floor before the paramedics got to you. Remember that."

The words don't do anything to reassure him. "Just tell me."

"Besides the gunshot wound, she's suffered several rib fractures…" the sentence trails away into meaningful silence.

Boyd stares at her, not immediately understanding the implications of her words. She doesn't say anything more, and reluctant comprehension begins to dawn. A horrible, sick comprehension that twists through his stomach. "My fault…? _I_ did that to her?"

"It happens," Mary says with a slight, off-hand shrug. "It's by no means inevitable, but you know how much force is required for CPR to be effective. It's unfortunate, I agree, but…"

"' _Unfortunate_ '? Jesus _Christ_ , Mary..."

"I'm not telling you to give you another excuse for self-flagellation, I'm telling you because there is still a chance – a very slight chance – that she could develop a traumatic pneumothorax at some point in the next few days."

"Traumatic pneu…? A collapsed lung? That's what you're talking about?"

"It's a possibility, Peter. One you need to be aware of."

For a few brief seconds the world starts to gently spin around him again, and he feels as if he's slipping away from the grim reality of a terrible day that only seems to keep getting worse. Maybe he staggers a little, he's not sure, but suddenly there's a steadying hand on his arm and he's being encouraged to sit back down on one of the cheap, garishly coloured chairs that line two of the room's walls. The moment passes and he looks up, finds himself looking into familiar hazel eyes that seem to regard him with an unexpected degree of calm compassion. He looks away, mutters, "Thanks. Sorry."

"Look at the state of you," Mary says, and for the first time her voice doesn't hold a cold, hard edge. "I'm not letting you anywhere near any patient of mine until you go and clean yourself up a bit."

He looks up at her again. "I can see her?"

She nods. "If they haven't taken her up to theatre, yes. I warn you, though, she may be conscious, but you won't get much sense out of her. She's had a _lot_ of morphine."

"Thank you," he says, and his sincerity is heartfelt. "I mean it – thank you."

"It's my job."

"You know what I mean."

Another long, intent sort of look, then a second nod. "All right. But don't think I'm not still absolutely furious with you about this morning."

"I'm… sorry… about that," he says, the words grudging. "You caught me at a bad moment."

Mary raises her eyebrows. "Did you just apologise to me for something?"

"Yes," Boyd confirms.

"Good God. Well, there's a first time for everything, I suppose."

He bristles instantly. "Don't start…"

"Oh, I'm not," she says, holding up a placatory hand. "It's just… habit."

"Yeah."

"Go on," she encourages, "go and clean up a bit – there's nothing more guaranteed to freak a patient out than seeing their own blood spattered over someone else."

"And again with the terrible bedside manner."

"What? You're not the damn patient, are you?"

"No," Boyd says, getting heavily to his feet. "No, I'm not."

-oOo-

The impersonal treatment area and all the usual hospital trappings, he expects. Beeping machines, lines, wires… he's seen them all often enough before not to be fazed by them, but the sight of Grace lying unmoving under a thin white hospital coverlet threatens to destroy his brittle, hard-won composure. She looks so small and delicate, so vulnerable. So… old. He shies away from the unwelcome word, but can't deny its brutal truth. He approaches her side quietly and cautiously, not wanting to disturb her if she's dozing her way through the trauma in a pleasant morphine haze. Her eyes flutter open as he stops beside her, however, and though she turns her head towards him, he can see that she's not really fully aware of his presence. Tomorrow, Boyd knows, she won't remember very much about anything that happened after Webb fired his final shot. It's probably for the best. Not sure what else to do, he settles for taking her hand in his, carefully avoiding the taped-down cannula that he knows is going to leave her with a dark bruise for days. He doesn't know if he's surprised or not by how cool her skin feels. Still, she has regained a little colour, her cheeks no longer as waxy and deathlike as the last time he saw her.

"I'm sorry," he murmurs, needing to say it even if she isn't really conscious enough to understand. "This is all my damned fault, Grace, and I'm so, so sorry."

She seems to recognise his voice, even if she can't make sense of the words, because her head turns a fraction more towards him, and he's certain he feels a faint twitch of her fingers. Staring down at her, he isn't aware of Mary drifting to stand at his shoulder until she says, "Keep it together, Pete. For her sake."

He can't remember the last time she called him by the affectionate diminutive so commonly used by everyone in his youth. Like so much else, it disappeared at some point in the hard years when fighting was a far easier option than trying to find the time to talk. He doesn't look round at her as he says, "It's too easy to take things for granted, isn't it?"

"Yes," Mary agrees. "And life is far more fragile than we realise."

"We'll talk," he tells her suddenly, the words coming from nowhere. "As soon as Grace is on the mend, and I've had my knuckles thoroughly rapped by the DAC. I promise."

"About the headstone?"

"The headstone, the house, a divorce; anything you want."

She looks at him for a moment, her expression guarded and yet quizzical, and then she shrugs. "You can keep the damned house. You paid for most of it, anyway."

"Doctor Boyd?" a voice inquires. It's the young doctor from earlier, hovering by the door with a uniformed porter. He gestures towards Grace. "They're ready for her in theatre now."

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	5. Nightfall

**5 - Nightfall**

" _Why the fuck are you still here?"_ – that's what he'd barked at her on the evening of the funeral, long after everyone else had disappeared, leaving him to sit alone and brooding, a half-empty bottle of Scotch before him, his unfastened black tie an imaginary noose around his neck. Savage and ungrateful in his pain. Grace had understood. Not a single complaint or harsh word from her, nothing but quiet, strong support that didn't buckle or waver even once in the face of his angry grief. No questions, no platitudes, just her steady, calm presence long into the small hours of the morning until he finally drank himself into a bitter stupor, collapsing into unconsciousness on the sofa that Mary chose on her own because he was too busy to go with her to whichever stupidly expensive store it was she'd nagged him about for weeks. And when he woke the following morning, sober, cold, and full of self-loathing, the Scotch bottle empty and the black tie discarded, she was still there.

Maybe, Boyd thinks now, that was the moment when everything between them really changed. Maybe it wasn't the rowdy and memorable Friday night after the successful conclusion of the Beckett case at all, but weeks – many of them – earlier, and he just didn't realise it. Not at the time. Or until now, in fact.

She looks peaceful. As if she is sleeping naturally, despite the tubes and the wires and the hospital paraphernalia. If she stirs, he's been told, she won't be lucid, not yet, but Boyd doesn't care. He just wants to see her open her eyes, just wants to look at her and know that the very worst of the unexpected nightmare is over.

A tiny rustle of movement behind him alerts him to someone else's presence in the quiet side room just off the main body of the hospital's high dependence unit, and though it could be any one of the night shift staff, he somehow knows it's not. He's not surprised when Mary's familiar voice murmurs, "Go home, Peter. You're completely exhausted, and there's nothing you can do for her at the moment."

He doesn't look round. "Didn't you go off duty hours ago?"

A soft snort is followed by, "I did, in the magical wonderland where the NHS isn't chronically understaffed and stretched to absolute breaking-point. We had a serious RTA come in. Multiple casualties. One fatality – a five year-old child."

"I'm sorry." It's a stupid, mechanical response.

Mary moves past him, her attention all on Grace, and Boyd watches as she makes a quick, efficient assessment of her former patient's status. He forgets, sometimes, just how good she was – _is_ – at her job. Forgets, too, just how hard it was for them in all sorts of ways when she was still a medical student working part-time in that damned delicatessen, and he was still out on the beat in uniform at all hours of the day and night. How hard it was when she lost the much-wanted baby they'd had so many hopes and dreams for. Was that, he asks himself, when the very first cracks started to show? Cracks they continued to paper over through all Luke's early years, both of them desperate to believe in the fantasy of idyllic family life.

"Do you remember the Gower Road flat?" she asks him, apparently from nowhere.

He scowls, thinking of the small, damp prison that was the very best place they could afford to rent at the time. A difficult and combative landlord, noisy and abusive neighbours; the continual rumble of traffic at all hours. Too hot in the summer, far too cold in the winter. He nods. "Yeah. Fucking awful place."

"I drove past it the other day. Or, at least, I drove past where it used to be. It's all brand new luxury apartments now." Mary moves back to stand at his shoulder, folds her arms. "There was a uniformed copper down in A and E looking for you. Seems your phone is switched off. I might have told him you'd gone home."

"'Might have'?"

"Did," she admits, without any sign of regret or repentance. "You're deep in the shit this time, aren't you?"

"I am," Boyd agrees, glancing up at her. "This case… it was always right on the edge of going completely tits-up without the added complication of today's debacle."

"SNAFU?" Mary suggests.

"FUBAR." He sighs. "I knew from the start that it was a dangerous gamble, opening it up again."

"But you got your man?"

Boyd jerks his head towards the unmoving figure on the hospital bed. "Look at the collateral fucking damage, Mary."

"Maybe," she says, sounding reflective, "it's time to re-evaluate your position. Everyone knows why you took on the CCU when no-one else would go anywhere near it, but it's a completely unforgiving command. Surely you've realised that by now?"

"I've been doing it long enough."

She nods. "Quite. Closure, Pete. You don't need to keep on digging through the bones of the dead, not anymore. We got our boy back."

His chest tightens again, the pain very real. "Don't."

"If I can bear to face it, why can't you?" Mary asks. "Make your peace with it all, grab your new friend here with both hands, and move on. You could retire if you wanted to – you've got more than enough years of service." A brief pause is followed by a heavy sigh and, "Neither of us will ever fully recover from what happened… but that doesn't mean we've got to spend every moment of the rest of our lives in absolute misery."

The implication makes him snipe back, "How is Philip, by the way?"

Her upper lip curls in disdain. "That's a cheap shot. And just a little hypocritical under the circumstances, don't you think?"

"I wasn't the one on holiday in the bloody Seychelles when…" Boyd stops, lets the sentence die away unfinished. It's not the suppressed anger glittering in the hazel eyes glaring at him that makes him shake his head and say, "That was completely out of order. I'm sorry, Mare."

If she notices his accidental use of his former pet name for her, she gives no sign of it. A little of the anger seems to recede, but when she replies her tone is glacial. "Are you." It is not a question. "Well, you're right. When our son was dying alone in some derelict, rat-infested building, I was probably lying on the beach topping up my suntan. Somehow I'll have to find a way to live with that horrendous thought for the rest of my life, won't I? But you, Peter," her voice cracks just a little, "where the fuck were _you_ when he needed us?"

A low moan from beside them brings them both out of their shared personal nightmare and back to the cold reality of now. Of what _is_ , not what _was_. Reaching out quickly to grasp Grace's hand, Boyd questions, "Grace…? Grace, can you hear me?"

Her eyelids flutter lightly for a moment, and then she opens her eyes fully, immediately squinting although the room's harsh main overhead light is switched off. Her voice is hoarse and barely audible as she whispers a clearly confused, "Boyd…?"

The sense of relief that floods through him is intoxicating in its raw power, and Boyd realises that despite everything he's suddenly smiling. He glances at Mary, a brief look of apology and gratitude, then edges his chair forwards, bringing himself closer to Grace's side. She looks confused, lost, and not really fully aware of her surroundings, but she's most definitely conscious, and that… that means everything to him. "I'm here," he confirms, half-drunk with relief and exhaustion. "I'm here, Grace."

She blinks at him, slow and dazed, but it's a clear response, and his spirits soar even further. It's Mary who says in a brisk tone, "Grace? I'm Doctor Boyd. You've had a bit of a mishap, I'm afraid; you're in hospital."

"Well," Boyd mutters, "if that doesn't confuse the hell out of her, nothing will, _Doctor Boyd_."

"I liked your name better," she murmurs back, "so I kept on using it. And I'm not intending to hand it back any time soon. Tough luck."

It's always been the same way with them – fury to absurdity in moments. Or to lust, in those long ago days when they still looked at each other with need and hunger, even in the angriest of times. Little wonder that even some of the wisest and least excitable of their friends and family members were convinced that their marriage would end in some sort of dire catastrophe. With one or other of them dead on the floor, probably. Boyd winces. Now isn't the time to be thinking about Mary. Now is the time to be thinking of Grace. He says, "You're going to be fine, Grace. I promise."

Her fingers tighten around his for a moment – a definite squeeze rather than a reflex action – and then her eyes slowly close again. Mary says, "She'll be like this for hours – drifting in and out. It's the anaesthetic and the morphine."

"I know."

"I'm going home," she tells him, plucking Grace's notes from the end of the bed, and glancing at them as she continues, "and so should you. We've got a Celia Wright listed here as her next of kin…?"

"Sister," Boyd supplies, "still lives up North somewhere. Lancashire, I think."

"No note to say she's on her way. I'll add your number to the contact details. They'll call you if there's a problem."

"Thank you," he says, more grateful to her than he's been for a long, long time.

"You don't deserve it," Mary tells him, replacing the notes. "But maybe _she_ does."

-oOo-

 _cont…_

* * *

 _* SNAFU - Situation Normal, All Fucked Up_

 _* FUBAR - Fucked Up Beyond All Recognition_


	6. Picking Up the Pieces

**6 - Picking Up the Pieces**

At exactly nine o'clock, Boyd presents himself at New Scotland Yard in response to the terse summons he wakes up to find waiting for him. He weathers the expected storm with the kind of tight-jawed stoicism he long ago learned to show in front of his superiors, and duly accepts their complaints and castigations, their grim warnings about investigations and inquiries. There's a good reason for his unusual level of disciplined control and compliance – the need to avoid a lengthy confrontation that will keep him at the Yard for hours, and which he won't win anyway. Boyd knows how to pick his battles, and by ten o'clock he is only moments away from storming his way into the CCU's gloomy squad room, his temper already fraying to such an extent that he slams every door he passes through, sending minions from his own and other teams scurrying in all directions.

Reaching his destination, he pre-empts every question he knows is coming his way by smacking a copy of one of the morning tabloids down on the nearest empty area of desk and demanding, "How the _fuck_ did the media get hold of this?"

The headline is bold and eye-catching: _"Home Office Psychologist Shot During Police Raid"_.

He sees the quick glances that confirm that his subordinates already know how extensively the story is being covered, and that they have a pretty damn good idea why he was absent when they arrived for work. Only Stella seems not to recognise the question as purely rhetorical, because she offers, "One of the Southwark officers…?"

Boyd glares at her long enough for her to drop her head and stare intently at whatever paperwork she was doing when he arrived. To Spencer, he says, "Did you get everything on the King's Street investigation over to Donaldson's lot?"

"Yes, sir," the younger man confirms. "We took it all over personally last night. He wasn't exactly dancing for joy about it."

"Fuck him," Boyd says. It's more coarse and succinct than he intends, but he's definitely not having the best morning of his life.

Eve is regarding him with calm calculation, as if she's trying to decide just how close he is to explosion point before she speaks. He tilts his head a fraction at her, inviting the question he knows everyone wants to ask. She doesn't disappoint him. "How's Grace this morning?"

"Grace," he says, allowing himself to drop down onto the nearest empty chair, "is doing 'as well as can be expected', according to the HDU nurse I spoke to earlier. The operation was routine, no nasty surprises, and when I left the hospital last night she was semi-conscious."

Spencer picks up on the words. "'Semi-conscious'?"

"From all the drugs," Boyd clarifies.

"But…" Stella says diffidently, "she's going to be okay? Grace is going to be okay?"

"Yes," he says, not prepared to show even an iota of the amount he hopes and prays that it's true. He folds his arms across his chest, unconsciously defensive. "If anyone's got anything to say about yesterday's events, I suggest they say it now."

Another spate of quick glances around the tables is followed by Spencer's hard, uncompromising, "It shouldn't have happened."

"No," Boyd agrees, meeting his subordinate's dark, inimical gaze and holding it, "it shouldn't."

"That's it? That's all you've got to say?"

He doesn't miss the belligerent note of challenge in Spencer's voice. It's one he knows well, and dislikes intensely. It's not the edge of insubordination that grates on him – heaven knows he's been guilty of the same thing enough times in his career – but the veiled suggestion of moral superiority. Not blinking, he stares straight back at the man who's been his right hand for more years than he cares to think about and says, "Not by a long, long way, believe me, but now's not the time to be playing the blame game."

"No game to play," Spencer retorts, "it's obvious who's to blame."

Boyd feels the sudden pulsing rush of adrenaline, the angry rise in the rate of his pulse and respiration. The temptation to leap from his chair and seize hold of Spencer is incredibly strong, but it's one he fights with every ounce of self-control he's got left. No point in making a bad situation even worse, and besides, he's not sure he's got the emotional reserves left to deal with the likely consequences of such reckless stupidity. It's not a comment he can let pass unchallenged, though, not under the circumstances, so he bites back with, "Is it? Is it really? And where the hell were you when I needed back-up, _Detective Inspector_? Not where I _told_ you to be, that's for bloody sure."

"I was interviewing Jackson – "

"On whose orders?" Boyd barks at him, getting to his feet. "Because I know damn well they weren't _mine_. Grace and Stella were supposed to be interviewing Jackson – _you_ were supposed to be meeting me at Maple Court. Correct?"

Spencer remains seated, but it clearly costs him. His reply is sullen. "Correct. Sir."

"Good," Boyd says, striding across to the evidence board to assume his familiar position of authority. He glowers at the seated trio before him. "Make no mistake, I'm fully aware of my own culpability. It won't be any of _you_ standing in front of a board of inquiry trying to explain how a civilian consultant nearly fucking died because of a bad decision you made, it'll be me – and that's how it _should_ be. But if you think I'm – " he breaks off suddenly, aware that he's on the verge of saying far too much. He shakes his head. "This is not a good day. For any of us. I'm aware of that. Finish whatever's urgent, then get out of here. All of you. Take some time. Tomorrow we go back to work."

Spencer looks away, Eve raises an eyebrow, and Stella… Stella just looks bewildered, as if what he's just said makes no sense to her. He eyes her for a moment. " _Comprenez-vous_?"

She nods. " _Oui, monsieur_."

He waits for a moment, letting the silence carry its own message, and then he heads for his office, closing the door quietly behind him, knowing that they are all expecting another loud slam. Yesterday's growling headache is back – or maybe it just never really went away. Settling behind his desk, Boyd rifles through his desk drawers until he finds a foil strip of painkillers. He's dry-swallowing them when a quiet knock on the door makes him look up, and he's surprised to see that it's Eve gazing at him through the glass. He motions her in with an impatient gesture, greeting her with a blunt, "Well?"

"Are you going to the hospital?" she asks, approaching his desk and then halting.

"As soon as I've dealt with everything here," he confirms, leafing through the pile of papers in front of him. Most of it can wait, he decides, but not all of it. It doesn't matter what else happens, how bad things get, there's always something that needs to be read and signed.

"I'd like to go and see her."

He shrugs. "It's a free country."

"It is," Eve agrees, "but I thought I'd… run it past you first."

Boyd looks up. "If you want to go, go. It's not down to me to decide who goes to see her and who doesn't."

"I know." She looks at him for a moment, her intelligent dark eyes studying him with unsettling shrewdness. "You know Grace won't blame you, don't you? She knew Webb was dangerous – we all did."

He ignores the attempt at reassurance. "Did you want anything else, Eve?"

"No. Did you?"

Too clever by half, Boyd thinks. She's not – never will be – Frankie, but he's become fond of her nonetheless. Fonder than he ever would have been of Felix, even if things had worked out differently. Fond of her, and perennially impressed by her skill, her dedication, and her ability to fit in so well with the rest of the team. She and Grace have grown close, he knows, and that's another reason for him to give her all the respect she deserves. And… the trust. He sighs and leans back in his chair. "Apparently she's… at some risk of developing a traumatic pneumothorax."

Eve frowns. "I thought you said the bullet…?"

"Not from the gunshot wound." Unbidden, the fingers of his right hand start to drum out a nervous tattoo on the polished wooden surface of his desk. "She stopped breathing before the paramedics got there. I had to perform CPR."

Unlike either of her CCU predecessors, Eve is a pathologist and therefore a fully-qualified medical doctor. A slight frown pinches her brow as she asks, "Rib damage?"

"Apparently so." The thought of it still sickens him. "Jesus… what else could I do? I wasn't about to let her die right in front of me, was I? But the very thought of hurting her…"

"It's quite common," she says, her voice soothing in its calmness as she echoes what Mary told him. "Think about it, Boyd – you're a big guy, and with the best will in the world, there's not very much of her, is her? Plus, she's not… as young as she once was."

"I broke her fucking ribs, Eve."

"And saved her life."

He grunts. "Well, that remains to be seen, doesn't it?"

"If it happens – and it's by no means a foregone conclusion – she's in absolutely the best place for immediate treatment."

"I know that. It just doesn't help very much."

"You and Grace," Eve says, the words quiet and considered, "it's none of my business, but… well, if you're half as close as I think you are, this is only going to draw you further together, not push you apart. You saved her life, Boyd. That's what you have to hang onto. Everything else… can be fixed."

Boyd studies her in silence for a few seconds, trying to read the thought and intent behind the serene expression. It's impossible – she's almost as inscrutable as Grace can be. Instinct tells him that she's got a pretty good idea of the way things are. The way they _really_ are. He's not certain if it matters or not. He says, "I'm not sure that's quite how the DAC sees it."

"Because of the press thing?"

"Amongst other reasons. This whole thing is fucked up beyond all belief." It helps a little to say it, to actually admit just how serious the situation is – and not just for Grace.

"Fucked up is okay," she says. "Fucked up we can deal with."

"'We'?"

"Well, we're a team, aren't we?" She shrugs, the movement of her shoulders both nonchalant and graceful. "All for one and one for all, that sort of thing."

"I think you're confusing us with the bloody Musketeers, Eve."

She grins. "Well, I'm not saying that the DAC is Cardinal Richelieu, but…"

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	7. Reunited

**7 - Reunited**

The room is still and silent, and its bed is freshly made and empty. The effect the sight has on Boyd is immediate and visceral. His stomach lurches, his pulse quickens, and for a moment he feels light-headed and nauseous. Common-sense takes hold a split second before blind panic can set in. Nothing terrible has happened, he tells himself sternly. If it had, he would already have heard about it by one means or another. Clearly, Grace has simply been moved to another bed, or perhaps to another ward altogether. It's almost lunchtime, after all, and doubtless all the doctors have completed their morning rounds. He turns on his heel, a quick, decisive motion, and heads towards the nearest member of staff – a male Staff Nurse apparently engaged on restocking a trolley loaded with sealed dressings and other essential medical supplies. The man looks up as he approaches, expression affable enough as he asks, "Can I help you?"

"The woman who was in room two," Boyd says with an indicative jerk of his head. "Doctor Foley…?"

"Moved down to Bennet Ward about an hour ago."

As he expected, but the surge of relief is powerful, nonetheless. "She's doing well, then?"

Sea-grey eyes regard him without animosity. "And you are…?"

"A friend," he says. It's an inadequate description by a long, long way, but it's simple and straightforward, and it doesn't invite further inquiry.

"She had a reasonable night. The staff on Bennet will be able to tell you more."

It's a firm but polite dismissal. One that Boyd doesn't bother to challenge. More interested in locating Grace than in trying to prise more information out of the nurse, he heads back out into the long corridor that seems to form the hospital's central spine and makes his way to the nearest staircase. He hates hospitals on principle – with the notable exception of his son's birth, an event he very nearly missed due to the stubborn resistance of a very recalcitrant robbery suspect, nothing good ever seems come of his reluctant visits to them. The thought makes him reflect once again on Mary and the difficult nature of their relationship. A lot of water has passed under a lot of bridges since… well, since they went their separate ways… but there are still things between them that need resolving before either of them can let go completely. He's known it, and ignored it, for years, preferring not to revisit incredibly painful memories.

" _Did you love her?"_ Grace asked him, not too long ago, a question he put down to some kind of morbid curiosity, and when he answered in the affirmative he didn't miss the not-quite hidden flash of… what? Jealousy? Insecurity? Fear? He didn't understand it then, and he doesn't understand it now. The past is the past, for fuck's sake. Still, he has an inkling that she's going to be far from pleased when she realises just who it was who treated her on arrival in A and E. Women. There's just nothing straightforward about any of them.

Bennet Ward is on the second floor, a good walk along the main corridor and through a minor maze of others, but Boyd locates it before his patience evaporates completely, and is happy to see the unequivocal notice on the wall that announces open visiting times. He's not in the mood to wrangle with a ferocious ward Sister over the legitimacy of his presence. Obtaining directions from a young student nurse, he heads for one of the side rooms at the far end of the ward, too caught up in his own thoughts to pay much attention to his surroundings. The door is open, but he taps lightly on it anyway – ingrained courtesy – before walking in. Two pairs of eyes, one a cool, clear blue, the other a warm chocolate colour, regard him from near the window. Grace is sitting up in bed, well propped up with pillows, and she has company. Eve, sitting on a chair drawn up next to the bed.

"Ladies," he says, for want of a better greeting. It sounds wrong. Stupid. Awkward. Stilted, even.

"Boyd," Eve responds. She stands up almost immediately. "I was just going."

"Don't rush off on my account," he tells her, but it's half-hearted gallantry at best. He looks at Grace, raises his eyebrows a fraction in silent inquiry, following the look with, "Okay…?"

"'As well as can be expected'," she replies, her voice hoarse and a little breathless. "That's what they say, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he agrees. He feels oddly exposed, standing just inside the doorway with the two of them gazing serenely at him. Not just exposed, either. He feels like an uncomfortable intruder, as if he's interrupted something that's no business of his. "I would have been here a bit earlier, but…"

"It's all right," Grace says. "Eve's brought me up to date."

"I'm off," Eve says promptly, taking Grace's hand and giving it a slight squeeze as she adds, "if you need anything, call me, okay?"

Grace smiles at her. "I will; thanks, Eve."

Boyd definitely feels excluded. It's not a nice feeling, not one he's used to. Not one he knows quite how to deal with, either. Not sure what is expected of him, he simply waits as the two women says their goodbyes, gives Eve a brief, grateful nod in passing as she leaves. Pulling himself together, he steps towards the bed, bends to brush a brief, light kiss against Grace's lips before commandeering the chair just vacated by their colleague.

"So," Grace says as he settles, "just how much trouble are you in?"

Boyd winces. "Don't go there, Grace. Really. Don't go there."

"That much, eh?"

"And a bit more." He surveys her for a moment, pleased to see how much more… robust… she seems. "You're looking a damn sight better than you did last night."

"Thank you. I think." A delicate pause. "I'm told you were here for hours."

No point in denying it. Boyd nods. "I was. I'm not surprised you don't remember – you were pretty stoned."

"I think I still am, a bit. It's rather nice, actually. Reminds me of my student days."

Deciding that pointedly ignoring her deliberate mischief is probably for the best, he inquires, "Are you in pain? I could get someone…"

"No," she assures him. She grimaces as she adds, "It's not too bad. All things considered."

The words won't wait any longer. In fact, they're out before he really has a chance to consider them. "I'm sorry, Grace. I'm so fucking sorry. For everything."

"Don't," she tells him, her voice stronger and more definite than he expects. "It wasn't your fault."

He bristles against the notion of forgiveness, of mercy. Of pity, even. "No? Whose bloody fault was it, then?"

"Don't," she repeats, less forcefully. "Don't do this, Peter. Not now. I'm not up to dealing with it."

He grunts in grudging assent, watches her as she gazes at him, then asks, "How much have they told you?"

She coughs, adjusts her position against the pillows. "Most of it. Eve filled in the remaining gaps. It seems I owe you a huge debt of thanks."

Boyd frowns. "You do? Why?"

"The whole 'you saved my life' thing?"

They've been here before, he remembers. The Tony Green case, and everything that went with it. Her pain, her vulnerability. His fierce need to protect her. It seems so long ago now. "Ah, that."

"That," she agrees, watching him with an intensity that's unsettling.

"It seems," he says, looking down at the floor beneath his feet, "that I might have been a little… over-enthusiastic… on that front."

Her reply is dry, but not at all condemnatory. "Yes, I'd gathered that was partly why I was feeling a bit as if I'd been hit by a rather large truck."

"Sorry." It's a stupid, inane thing to say – but what else is there? Boyd doesn't raise his gaze, concentrates on the flooring's small, random patterns. Little swirls that he could form into imaginary pictures if he had the energy and inclination. He needs to say more. Much more. Clearing his throat, he tries, "Everything happened so fast, Grace. I just did what I needed to do. It didn't occur to me that… Well, you know. I'm sorry I… hurt you."

"You're an idiot, Boyd," she says, but not at all unkindly, "you know that, don't you? You _saved my life_. What's a broken rib or two between friends compared to that?"

"Oh, God…" He dares to look up. "You're not taking this seriously, are you?"

"I am," Grace contradicts. "Oh, I am. I've never been shot before, and, on balance, I never want to be shot again. I'm tired, I'm in pain – not _too_ much pain before you start throwing your weight around and upsetting the staff – and I'm trying hard to get my head round what happened yesterday. But what I'm trying _not_ to do is let things get out of perspective. It's over, and we both lived to fight another day."

" _Just_."

"Sometimes 'just' is enough."

It's clear that she's prepared to argue the point if she has to. If he pushes her to it. Which is something he's not prepared to do, however strongly he feels, however guilty he is. Shaking his head, Boyd looks round the room, but there's very little to see. Bland, anonymous and functional. Just any other hospital room. Someone – Eve? – has left a large, overly-cheerful get well card on the little square cupboard by the bed. Anthropomorphic bandaged cartoon animals. Not his style, not at all. Not able to sustain the sudden silence, he says, "Webb's been charged with four counts of murder and one of attempted murder."

"Yes, Eve told me." A pause. "She also told me something about his solicitor making an allegation of police brutality…?"

He meets her knowing, disapproving look without a single twinge of conscience. "I don't know about that, but he certainly took a bit of a tumble down the stairs trying to get away from the flat."

"It must have been quite a fall to result in a badly broken nose and a fractured jaw."

"Must have been," Boyd agrees. She knows him far too well to believe such a spurious story, as do his superiors, but sometimes when there are no inconvenient witnesses to say otherwise… well, he likes to think of such things simply as natural justice. It's certainly time to change the subject, however. "So… you're okay, then? Broadly speaking."

"You're absolutely useless at this sort of thing, aren't you?" Grace tells him in response, a definite hint of amusement clear in both her voice and her expression.

"I'm doing my best," is his gruff retort, despite the fairness of her point. "Jesus, Grace… cut me some bloody slack here, will you? I'm about half an inch from – "

"I'm teasing you," she interrupts. "I can't resist, sorry. Not when you've got that lost little boy look about you. You look so… mournful. Like a whipped puppy."

He doesn't attempt to hide his disgust. "Oh, _please_."

"Brings out my maternal instincts," she adds, deadpan.

"Right, that's it," he says, gripping the arms of the chair in mock-preparation to stand up, "I'm not listening to this. You're on your own. Good luck with the recovery."

She chuckles, but the chuckle becomes a cough that leaves her momentarily gasping for air. Banter forgotten, Boyd is on his feet and helping her to sit up a fraction straighter in an instant. He doesn't let go of her as her breathing steadies, and after a few seconds more she looks up at him to say, "It's okay… I'm all right."

"You sure? Maybe I should get the doctor…"

"No. It's nothing, and they're far too busy, anyway. Just… sit down."

"Grace – "

"I haven't got the energy to argue, Peter. Please… just sit down."

It goes against all his instincts and principles, but he finally does so, unwilling to tire her further by pressing home his point. Grace can be almost as stubborn as he can when she wants to be, and considerably more cutting. He's been on the wrong end of her sharp tongue often enough not to risk her wrath lightly. Doing as he's told and grumbling about it is often a far better choice than further provoking her.

"So," she says, when he's settled again, "what's this I hear about you sending everyone home early…?"

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	8. Interlude

**8 - Interlude**

The hustle and bustle of the hospital's coffee shop intrigues him. He'd deny it if ever challenged, but Boyd is something of a people-watcher both on and off duty. He's long past knowing or caring whether the trait is natural or acquired, but it's an interesting way to pass a few minutes of time. His observational skills are sharp, as they should be, and he often finds himself able to recall tiny details about people that he wasn't consciously aware of noticing – a very useful skill that's served him well on several occasions. Sitting at an unobtrusive corner table waiting for his coffee to cool to an acceptable temperature, he watches the continual ebb and flow of people, getting a feel for the natural rhythm of the place. Staff, visitors, patients, they all come and go, some lingering longer than others; some are nervously killing time, others are taking a brief opportunity to relax. It's ceaseless, almost hypnotic, but he still spots Mary the moment she steps into view from the main corridor. Spots her, and takes the opportunity to study her in the few safe moments before she spots _him_.

It's been years – decades – and against his own better judgement he still likes what he sees. A tiny part of him wonders if she thinks the same. It's immaterial whether she does or doesn't, of course, but he can't quite banish the stray thought. Before he can speculate further, she sees him, heads towards him, her expression best described as coolly neutral. As she reaches the table, he offers, "Thanks for this, Mary."

"You've got ten minutes," she tells him, sitting down, "even consultants can't find the time for extended coffee breaks nowadays."

Boyd edges the second cup sitting on the table towards her. "Black, no sugar."

"You remembered. I'm touched." The sarcasm is only a little blunted by what he perceives as intense weariness. "What do you want, Peter?"

He shrugs. "Maybe… just to talk."

"Why?"

"I don't know," he admits. "I wasn't even sure you were on duty today when I called."

"No rest for the wicked, you should know that. How's your… friend?"

"My _friend_ ," he retorts with heavy emphasis on the word, "appears to be recovering well. Thanks to you."

"In part." Mary sips her coffee, pulls a face at its temperature. "I have no idea how you can stomach drinking lukewarm coffee. It's always been a complete mystery to me. Not your usual type, is she?"

There's a distinct edge to the words. One Boyd thinks he understands. He resists the temptation to shrug again. Instead, he inquires, "Weren't you the one lecturing me last night about making peace with everything and moving on?"

Mary's eyes narrow a fraction, but all she says is, "Fair point."

"It took me a long time," he says after a long pause, the words forming slowly, "to come to terms with what happened."

The change in direction doesn't throw her. "You mean Rob."

Boyd is not surprised by her perception, her ability to cut straight to the heart of the matter, and her blunt, fearless way of doing it. Not at all. The nod he gives her is grudging. "I mean Rob."

"He was there, you weren't." Short. Blunt. Accurate.

There's no point in arguing. Wasn't back then, most certainly isn't now. "So you've said. Repeatedly."

"And," she adds, her tone cold and sharp, "we might still have come back from it if you hadn't rushed straight into the arms of that Worrall woman."

The amount of venom she manages to inject into the surname would almost amuse the cynical side of Boyd's nature if he wasn't quite so tired and stressed. As it is, it doesn't amuse him at all. "Oh, I knew we'd get round to it somehow being all _my_ fault."

She holds his gaze with no sign of guilt or trepidation. "Two wrongs don't make a right, Peter. I was prepared to talk about it, you weren't. Jumping into bed with that cold-hearted bitch was so much easier for you than actually trying to sort out our problems, wasn't it?"

"God's _sake_ …" Boyd shakes his head, tries to summon some much-needed patience from somewhere. "Well, this is bloody pointless, isn't it?"

"What did you expect?" Mary demands, her tone bitter. "That with Luke gone we'd turn to each other for comfort, and magically end up falling back in love with each other?

He snorts. " _Hardly_. Give me some bloody credit. Look, you've got Philip and I've got Grace – everything else is ancient history."

"You brought it up," she points out.

"Because," Boyd says with dogged determination, "you're right. It's time to close the door and move on. Time to go ahead and start divorce proceedings. We've put it off for far too long."

"That was a mutual decision," she replies. "We agreed to wait."

"While Luke was missing," Boyd reminds her. "Look, we've lived apart for so long now that it's just a bloody formality. I don't need your consent or your cooperation, but – "

"Is this coming from you," Mary interrupts, "or from _her_?"

There's accusation in her voice, and distaste, and the combination is more than enough to make his hackles rise. Glaring across the span of the little corner table at her, Boyd says, "This has nothing to do with Grace."

"Really."

"Hasn't it ever crossed your mind," he growls, stung by her too-obvious scepticism, "to wonder whether I might be just a little bit tired of being your convenient excuse for not marrying Philip?"

"Don't you bloody _dare_ ," Mary snaps back at him. " _You_ were the one who point blank refused to discuss it a couple of years ago when I suggested it might be time for us to reconsider."

"I was _busy_. For heaven's sake, Mary, you turned up at the bloody office out of the blue right in the middle of a complicated twenty-year-old murder case, expecting me to just drop everything and – "

"Heaven forbid that _anything_ should ever get in the way of a case."

"I'm a fucking detective. It's my job."

"And don't I know it."

Still glaring, Boyd shakes his head again. He takes a deep, slow breath, then exhales. It helps. Slightly. Striving to at least sound calm and reasonable, he says, "It's time, Mary. Accept it or don't accept it, that's completely up to you, but it's going to happen. Amicably, or not."

"And then what?" she demands. "You marry Grace and forget all about _us_? About _Luke_?"

He stares at her, sudden comprehension beginning to dawn. "That's what all this hostility is about? Luke? You seriously think I could _ever_ forget about him?"

"I don't know," Mary says, and suddenly all her defiant anger seems to vanish and she just sounds weary again. Impossibly, heart-breakingly weary. "I really don't know. He was our _son_ , Peter. Our beautiful, happy, smiling little boy. The one who used to run through the house every single day to meet you at the door when you got home from work. The one who used to beg us to take him to the park every Sunday morning. The one who…" her words trail away into a tight gulp of breath that sounds suspiciously like a half-swallowed sob.

It hurts. All of it hurts so damned much, and there's nothing he can do to change any of it. Boyd reaches across the table to grab her hand, an impetuous, foolhardy gesture of solidarity, affection, understanding, and so much more. "Every single day I tell myself that I did everything I could to save him… but I never stop asking myself if that's really true. Maybe, if I'd – "

"No," she interrupts, fierce again now, "don't say that. Don't _ever_ say that, Peter. I can't let myself think that there was anything else _either_ of us could have done for him. He was an addict. It was too late – _nothing_ was going to stop him injecting that hideous poison into his veins; not you, not me, not anything."

"I just – " Boyd starts, but the sudden loud shrilling of his phone cuts him short. He grimaces, releasing her hand and reaching into his jacket for the offending item. "Sorry."

She waves the apology off, adding a sharp, "Just answer it."

He doesn't recognise the number on the caller display. A London number, but an unfamiliar one. A heightened sense of caution makes him answer with a blunt but quiet, "Yes?"

"Is that Mr Boyd?" a male voice asks. "Mr Peter Boyd? This is Charge Nurse Alan Mackenzie at – "

"What's happened?" he barks in immediate response, his stomach knotting hard and cold inside him. "Grace Foley…?"

"Doctor Kennington asked me to call you with an update. He's just seen her, and he's currently arranging for her to go to theatre for an immediate thoracostomy. She – "

"Wait," Boyd interrupts, a terse command that he expects to be obeyed. He holds the phone out to Mary. "Something's happened to Grace. I have no fucking clue what he's telling me."

Icy doesn't begin to describe the look she gives him, but she takes the phone from him anyway. "Hello? This is Doctor Boyd from A and E. What's the patient's situation?"

Boyd stares at her as she listens to whatever it is she's being told, trying to read every tiny nuance of her expression. Her slight frown of concentration gives him no real clue, nor does the way she stares into mid-distance as she listens. His heart seems to be thumping too hard and too loud in his chest, and he realises that his palms have become cold and clammy. Fear and tension, he assumes. Stress.

"I see," Mary says. "All right, I'll tell him. Thank you."

"What?" he demands, as she hands the phone back to him. "What the fuck's going on?"

"Pneumothorax," is her reply. "I did warn you it was a possibility."

"A _slight_ possibility, you said. Jesus Christ, how much worse can this get?"

"I take it that's a rhetorical question?" she says. "They're taking her to theatre to do a tube thoracostomy. It's not a pleasant procedure – for her – but it's highly effective. They'll leave the tube in until all the air's been removed from the plural cavity and they're sure there's been no more leakage. She should recover from it fairly quickly."

"'Should'?"

Mary eyes him in silence for a moment. When she speaks, her words are not what he expects. She says, "This isn't just some casual fling, is it? This isn't just you sleeping with her because she's there and you can?"

For once he doesn't bother to prevaricate, to obscure the truth. "It's not, no."

"I see." She continues to study him, her expression more thoughtful than anything else. "What happened?"

He frowns, bewildered by the question. "Eh?"

"You said it was a fairly new thing, but you've known each other for years. What happened to change the status quo?"

"Does it matter?"

"To me? Not a jot. To you, a great deal, I should think."

"Luke."

Mary doesn't look surprised. "Because you needed someone, and she was available?"

"Maybe. Partly." It's a difficult admission, one he's not proud of. "At the start. Not now."

"And when you get bored?"

"I won't get bored."

"You will," she predicts with a grim, cold smile. "You always do. The minute something stops being a challenge, you lose interest in it. I should know."

Stung, Boyd shakes his head. "That's not what went wrong between us, and you know it. Our marriage was a lot of things, but it wasn't boring."

"True." A long, long pause is followed by, "I'm sorry you found out about Rob the way you did. I've never quite forgiven myself for that."

A bitter flash of memory makes him shift uncomfortably in his chair. It's not easy to grudgingly say, "It was a long time ago."

"Still, accidentally catching your wife _in flagrante_ …"

Remembering the hot, humid summer evening when an impromptu swapping of shifts allowed him to leave work hours earlier than expected, Boyd can't stop himself from wincing. The unfamiliar car parked outside the house, the two empty wine glasses abandoned in the deserted living room; the sound of breathless laughter as he silently ascended the stairs… Giving himself a sharp mental shake, he forces himself back into the present. Preparing to stand up, he says, "I have to go."

Mary frowns, as if it was the last response she expected from him. Then she nods. "So do I. Peter?"

On his feet and half-turned away, he looks back at her. "Yes?"

She seems to think better of whatever it was she was going to say. Instead, she offers, "It's a routine procedure. She'll be fine."

"Let's hope so," Boyd mutters, walking away. He doesn't look back.

-oOo-

 _cont…_


	9. True Colours

**9 - True Colours**

The thoracostomy tube that snakes out from beneath Grace's hospital-issue gown reminds Boyd far too much of his late father's last few days. It shouldn't, given that Douglas Boyd suffered from emphysema for years, long before he was finally diagnosed with advanced lung cancer, and that Grace's general health has never been anything other than robust in all the time they've known each other, but it does, and he finds it both troubling and disconcerting. He stays dutifully at her side, however, as the sedation wears off and she alternately dozes and grumbles about the inconvenience, the discomfort, and just about anything else she can think of to protest about. She's irritable, restless and not at all herself, but he tells himself that she's earned it, that the least he can do for her is stay at her side until someone in authority actually orders him to leave. Twice he excuses himself to stand outside in the main corridor with his phone clamped to his ear as he is simultaneously berated and updated by the DAC's office, and on both occasions he returns to find her just as tetchy as when he left. It tests his patience, but he does his best to remain calm and reasonable, to listen to her moans and groans without criticism or complaint. It's his fault, after all, he repeatedly tells himself, that she's in hospital and in pain, so…

"How long have we been waiting for the doctor now?" she asks him, and though she sounds weak and breathless, there's a steely bite to her irritability that doesn't bode well for anyone who even slightly annoys her. " _Boyd_. I asked – "

"About an hour," he informs her, not needing to look at his watch. "You know what these places are like. He's probably been called away to an emergency."

"Why are you so calm?" Grace demands, both wheezy and bad-tempered. "Why aren't you pacing about and swearing your head off?"

"Would you like me to?" he inquires, leaning back in the uncomfortable chair in a vain attempt to stretch his aching back.

"It would be more characteristic," she sniffs. Then, "I don't understand why they have to leave this damn tube in. I mean, it's not as if…"

Despite his best efforts, Boyd's attention wanders as she grumbles. She's not saying anything he hasn't heard more than once already, and if she's not exactly rambling, she's certainly not as sharp and focused as she usually is. He assumes it's the fault of the extensive cocktail of drugs still in her system, so he murmurs occasional vague responses until she starts to drift again, and then he gets up and goes to look out of the room's small window. The view is uninspiring at best, but it reminds him that there's a world beyond the increasingly claustrophobic confines of the hospital. A world, in fact, where there are still a lot of difficult questions he's going to have to find plausible answers to, and soon. All part of the weight and responsibility of command, a burden he's used to bearing, and rarely regrets accepting, but one that seems to keep costing him.

It's the nature of the damn job, he reflects, watching a pair of straggly London pigeons squabbling over some meagre morsel of food they've found. Too many working hours in every single week. Been that way for years. Maybe for his entire career. If he'd gone to work on the docks like his father… but no, he was far too bright, and far too ambitious for that. Grammar school on a scholarship, exams instead of the queue for the Labour Exchange. Besides, the docks are almost all long gone now, the valuable waterside land repurposed all along the city stretch of the Thames. Perhaps he should have stuck it out at law school, become a solicitor or a barrister instead of a weary, over-worked copper.

The sound of quick, quiet footsteps makes him turn towards the door. Mary.

She says, "I was about to go home. Thought I'd check on you first."

Boyd isn't certain if the pronoun is singular or plural, but it doesn't matter either way. Keeping his voice low, he responds, "She's sleeping."

"Good. Best thing for her. Alex – Doctor Kennington – thinks they'll remove the chest tube in the morning, all being well. If everything looks good, they'll probably think about discharging her."

He frowns in surprise and concern. "Tomorrow?"

Mary nods. "Or the day after. It's very unlikely the lung will collapse again, and she'll recover much faster at home. She'll need someone to look after her for a day or two."

"That," he admits, "could be a problem."

"Why? Unless you've radically changed, you've probably got years' worth of leave stacked up."

It's a deliberate dig, one he ignores. "I can't not be at work; I need to be seen to be fronting it all out, Mary."

"Same old story," she replies, "work comes first. You never learn, do you?"

A mumble from the bed makes him nod towards the door. "Outside."

Mary precedes him out into the main ward, leads him to a quiet, half-concealed spot outside what appears to be a storage area packed with medical supplies. She says, "You're lying to yourself, Peter. You realise that, don't you? You're telling yourself you love her because it's easy; convenient."

Irked and astounded by her temerity, her glares at her. "You think so, do you?"

"I know so. I know _you_."

"You don't," Boyd contradicts, "and sometimes I think you never did. Not really."

"She felt sorry for you, didn't she?" Mary says then, echoing her earlier sentiments, "You more-or-less admitted that you needed someone, and she was there. That's not love."

"What the hell would you know about any of it?" he demands, his defensive belligerence increasing by the second.

"I'll tell you what I know," she tells him, the words delivered with a calm precision that belies the look in her eyes, "I know that it won't work between you, because whatever happened, and whatever you try to claim, I know that you're still in love with _me_."

Boyd laughs, short and sharp. "You're seriously bloody deluding yourself if you think that, Mary. You were the mother of my son, and yeah, I'll always love you for that, but as for anything else…"

He doesn't realise what her intentions are until it's far too late. She moves swiftly, decisively, and then her lips are on his, and her fingers are threading themselves roughly through his hair, preventing him from instantly jerking his head back. Too many things assault him at once – the strange familiarity of her kiss, the immediate rush of powerful, potent memories, the very real spike of angry indignation that tears hot and fast through him. A crazy mix of surrender, rebellion, need, and disgust, each pulling his heart and mind in different directions. Stunned, Boyd doesn't react as fast as he should, and the resulting stab of guilt makes him more savage than he intends as he both steps back and seizes her hands, forcing them away despite the brief flare of pain as she tugs at his hair.

"What the _fuck_ do you think you're doing?" he growls at her, somehow managing to refrain from bellowing the words at her. "Jesus… are you completely insane?"

Her eyes… _Oh, Christ, look at her eyes…_

They look molten in the strong artificial light, the normal strong green tones bleached away leaving only the fascinating tigerish tawny shades that he remembers far too well. "Pete…"

" _No_." Boyd puts everything he has into the word, follows it with a fierce, "Back off, Mary. I mean it."

Her anger, every bit as strong and dangerous as his, rises in response to his clear rejection. "Fuck you, Peter. Fuck _you_."

"You wish," he snaps back at her. "You bloody _wish_."

"Oh, go to hell," she snarls. "She's bloody welcome to you – you never were worth a damn, anyway, not as a husband _or_ as a father. You know what? I'm not sorry about Rob at all. At least he didn't screw me and then rush off straight back to work… every _single_ fucking time."

It hurts – exactly the way it's designed to. Boyd holds his ground and takes it, however, regarding her with as much dispassionate contempt as he can muster. "Nice. Showing your true colours again, eh, Mary?"

"Fuck off."

"It's been great seeing you again, too," he retorts, and for a second he's certain she's going to slap him. It wouldn't be the first time.

She doesn't. Still scowling, Mary turns sharply on her heel and stalks away without another word. Boyd watches her go, not moving a single muscle until she's long out of sight. Angry and unsettled, he takes the time to draw repeated steadying breaths, not prepared to return to Grace's side while he is still so close to losing his temper. Something in his heart is rapidly hardening in direct reaction to the scene that has just played out, all the reluctant tolerance he has acquired in relation to Mary over the last few years transforming once again into deep resentment and hostility. It's strange how she's conveniently never seemed to remember just how many extra hours he worked solely to provide for them both while she was still an impoverished medical student, or once she was a recently-qualified and thus poorly-paid junior doctor. Or how she's never bothered to recall how hard he struggled to keep food on the table and the bills and mortgage paid while she looked after Luke in his pre-school years. He doesn't resent a single one of all those long, difficult additional hours, but to have all the time he was absent repeatedly thrown in his face still hurts as much now as it did then.

He takes another deep breath. It's over. All of it is over. The past is the past, he reminds himself, firmly set in stone, and all that matters now is the present – and the future. And, if the powers of the universe are kind to him, his future is with Grace.

Gathering what equilibrium he can, Boyd heads back to the quiet side room, ready to resume his stoical vigil at her side. He stops dead in the doorway, however, as he realises she's awake – and no longer alone. The chair he vacated to go and stare out of the window is occupied again. Eyes several shades darker than his own regard him with a veiled antagonism he can't quite account for.

"Spence," he says by way of wary greeting. "I didn't see you arrive."

His subordinate's steady, contemptuous gaze doesn't waver. "No. You were… occupied."

 _Oh, fuck…_

Boyd looks towards Grace, but she only looks faintly bemused. Clearly, Spencer hasn't reported what it's quite obvious he saw. If he had…

"Right, I see," he says. It's a ridiculous response, but what else can he possibly say? Any variety of 'it wasn't what you think' is going to provoke a debilitating exchange he simply doesn't want to endure, and a long and complicated explanation he doesn't want to have to make. Boyd knows what he can see burning in the younger man's eyes, though, and he knows that the matter will have to be addressed one way or another before the day is out.

-oOo-

 _cont…_


	10. Confrontation

**10 - Confrontation**

"I'm fine, Spence," Grace repeats, beginning to sound querulous again. "For heaven's sake, stop fussing. You're beginning to make _him_ – " an indicative nod " – look like an absolute paradigm of calm patience."

Positioned by the window again, Boyd doesn't comment. Nor does he meet the bleak look Spencer shoots in his direction. No point in aggravating an already volatile situation, not with Grace in the state she's in. Though she sounds less breathless, and her voice is stronger than it was. She seems more alert, too, as if the last effects of the sedation are beginning to wear off, and although that's a very good thing, it makes it far more likely that she will pick up on the cool undercurrent of hostility in the room.

"I'm just worried about you, Grace," Spencer replies. "We all are."

"I know, and I'm grateful, but there's absolutely no need. I'll be out of here in a day or two, and back at work before you know it."

Boyd can't let that assumption go unchallenged. "We'll have to see about that."

Grace turns her head, subjects him to a steady blue gaze that would doubtless quash a lesser man's objections instantly. He shrugs in response. "I'm not getting myself even deeper in the shit by ignoring whatever medical advice you're given regarding convalescence."

" _Convalescence_ ," she echoes, making the word sound like a particularly unpleasant swearword. "Well, I can convalesce sitting at my desk just as well as I can sitting on my sofa at home, bored out of my mind."

"Why do you always have to be so difficult?" he asks.

" _Difficult_? _Me_? That's rich, coming from you, Boyd."

"He's right," Spencer cuts in. "You need time to recover and get your strength back. Trust me, I know."

"Do you want to form a club?" she inquires, more than a touch waspish.

"The CCU's very own 'shot-while-on-duty' club? Yeah, why not?"

Boyd knows a deliberate jibe when he hears one, but manages not to rise to it. He makes an ostentatious show of looking at his watch instead. "It's getting late…"

"Someone waiting for you?" Spencer asks, another pointed dig.

"No." Boyd stares straight at him, a direct challenge, a battle of wills. It takes several long, intimidating moments, but in the end Spencer looks away first. Dominance asserted, he continues, "She needs to rest."

" _She_ ," Grace snipes, "has a _name_ , and is still here, thank you very much."

" _Grace_ needs to rest," he amends, still staring at the top of Spencer's head.

The younger man looks up. "Sending me packing, are you?"

"No, he's not," Grace interjects. "Honestly, what's wrong with you two today? You're acting like a pair overgrown schoolboys."

It's Spencer who says, "Ask _him_."

"It's nothing," Boyd adds as the intent blue gaze focuses on him again. "We're all just a bit… on edge."

"If you say so."

She doesn't believe him for a moment, Boyd knows. Her dry, sceptical tone makes that perfectly clear. But in deference to… something… she's not challenging him over it while Spencer's still with them. Doesn't mean that the matter is forgotten. Far from it. He looks at his subordinate again. "Well?"

The silence stretches for several seconds before Spencer announces, "Right. I'll be off, then. You take care, okay, Grace?"

"I will," she promises. "Thanks for coming, Spence."

He gets to his feet, dragging the chair loudly on the floor. "No worries."

"I'll walk out with you," Boyd says.

Spencer shakes his head. "There's no need."

Boyd eyes him with tightly-controlled enmity. "It's not a problem."

-oOo-

They make their way out of the building in tense silence, barely exchanging a single unnecessary grunt. What Spencer's thinking, Boyd doesn't know, but his own thoughts are centred around rather more than just the events of the last couple of days. They're both hard-headed, competitive men, and they've clashed often enough before over the tiniest, stupidest things, neither of them able to easily back down. In some ways, maybe, they're just too alike. Stubborn, unable to admit when they're in the wrong. Mostly, it's not a problem that Boyd bothers to worry too much about. They are both, after all, bound to a lesser or greater degree by rank and professional etiquette, and that's usually enough to keep the peace.

Not this time, he suspects, but if he can avoid a direct clashing of aggressive male egos, he will.

He waits until they reach the small, overcrowded parking area at the rear of the hospital, and then he asks, "How long have we worked together now?"

Spencer gives him a quick, sideways look. "Dunno. Eleven, twelve years?"

"Must be," Boyd agrees, knowing that it's almost exactly twelve. "A transfer neither of us requested, eh?"

"Sir." A sullen, disinterested response.

"Cut the crap, Spence. We're both off duty." He slows his pace, waits for the other man to automatically adjust to the new speed. It's a subtle demonstration of control, of seniority. "You were sent to me in a last ditch attempt to save your career from hitting the buffers, we both know that. You came with a long and difficult history of insubordination and confrontation. Surly black copper with a massive chip on his shoulder."

Spencer doesn't look at him. "If you say so."

"I do. Know why I didn't send you on your way immediately, with a size ten up your arse for good measure?"

"No-one else would work for you?"

Despite himself, Boyd chuckles at the sheer audacity of the reply. "Oh, very good. I like that. I do."

"Well?" A pause. "Why didn't you?"

Boyd thinks he's going to win this battle without bloodshed. It's a minor skirmish in the grand scale of things, true, but still, a victory is a victory. "It's very simple, although I expect Grace could make it incredibly complicated if she tried. I saw a lot of myself in you. Still do. You're cussed, Spence; bloody-minded. You'd rather take on the whole world single-handed than let anyone tell you what to do and how to do it."

"Maybe."

"I grew up in Bermondsey, just a stone's throw from the river," Boyd says then, in reply to the grudging near-assent. He comes to a halt, puts his hands in his trouser pockets and surveys the younger man for a few moments. "It wasn't all luxury flats and multi-million riverside developments back then. Blitzed houses and empty buildings everywhere you looked until they started rebuilding in the 'sixties. My father was from Kilmarnock, but he settled down here after the war. Worked on the docks all his life after that, until he fell ill. Hard man, but a fair one. Mostly. When I decided to join the Met, he didn't speak to me for nearly two years."

Spencer doesn't look interested or impressed. "I've had this speech before."

"Well, maybe it's time for you to have it again," Boyd growls, allowing some of his increasing irritation to show. "Life's tough, Spence, and the world doesn't owe you a damn thing. You're not the only one who's had to fight every step of the bloody way to get anywhere. Tell me what you thought you saw."

A heavy frown accompanies, "What?"

"Drop the attitude and just tell me."

This time the reply is both immediate and bitter. "You, trying to pull some nurse while you were supposed to be in there looking after Grace."

"She's a doctor, not a nurse," Boyd tells him, "and I 'pulled' her, as you so delicately put it, _years_ a-fucking-go. She's my _wife_ , Spence. Soon to be _ex_ -wife."

That catches Spencer's attention. His expression somewhere between surprise and disbelief, he retorts, "Yeah, _right_."

"You want me to call her?" Boyd offers, though it's the very last thing he intends to do. "I'm sure she'd be delighted to explain things to you."

A hesitation, then, "Well, even if she _is_ , you should have been with Grace, not… you know."

"I _was_ with Grace," he replies. "We left the room so we didn't disturb her. We were _arguing_ , for fuck's sake, not… doing whatever it is you think we were doing."

"It was pretty obvious what you were doing."

"Really?" Boyd demands. "You heard me telling her to piss off and leave me alone, then?"

Spencer glowers at him. "You can dress it up all you like, but…"

"'But'?" he challenges.

"Grace deserves better."

"What's that supposed to mean?" It's a superfluous question – he knows exactly what Spencer's implying.

"You know what it means. I'm not spelling it out for you, _sir_."

Frustrated, Boyd resists the urge to sigh heavily. Instead, he says, "You're hard fucking work, Spencer, you know that? You need to give some serious thought to your position, because I need a DI I can rely on not to fight me every inch of the way. We're supposed to be on the same bloody side, for God's sake."

"Well, maybe if you didn't…" Spencer breaks off, as if aware that he's about to step over one line too many.

Removing his hands from his pockets, Boyd faces him square on. "If I didn't… what?"

Spencer glances up at the sky, as if seeking inspiration from somewhere. "Maybe if you didn't treat us like your private army, if you didn't always expect us to just blindly follow orders…"

"So this is really all about what happened to Grace yesterday, is it?"

"You shouldn't have taken her up there."

"No, I shouldn't," Boyd agrees. "And I wouldn't have _had_ to, if you'd been where you were supposed to be."

"Jackson was talking," Spencer defends himself. "He was finally fucking talking."

"You still don't get to arbitrarily ignore a direct order from a superior officer, Detective _Inspector_ ," Boyd barks at him. "I made a bad call, and Grace got hurt because of it. But _you_ put me in that position. _You_ did. Do you understand that?"

"Sir."

He takes a deep, calming breath. "I'm going to give you a chance, Spencer. _One_. One chance, one free shot. You go right ahead and say what you want to say, and you go ahead and do whatever you want to do, but you do it _here_ and you do it _now_. Otherwise you keep your bloody mouth shut, and you do as you're told without so much as a mutter or a single sideways look. Clear?" When there's no immediate reply, he adds for good measure, "But I warn you, if you're even vaguely thinking about punching me, you'd better make damn sure you put me down, because if you don't…"

Several seconds tick past before Spencer speaks. When he does, his voice is level, controlled, but hard. "You and Grace. I don't want to know. I've _never_ wanted to know. It's none of my business. But if what everyone says is true, then you'd better start doing a better bloody job of looking after her."

Boyd holds his accusing gaze without flinching. "Grace can look after herself."

A derisive snort is followed by, "She's in fucking hospital because of _you_."

"Because of _us_ , Spencer. Because of _us_." It's an important correction, one he's determined to make. "Neither of us is blameless. Luckily for you, however, it's _my_ neck on the block, not _yours_."

"I've never asked you to take the fall for me. Not once."

"It's my job," Boyd tells him, short and sharp. "I'm the poor bastard stuck in the middle who gets it from above _and_ from below. It wouldn't hurt you to remember that occasionally."

"Sir."

"Don't start that again. Well? Is that it? That's all you've got to say?"

"Yes."

"All right." He hesitates for a moment before holding his hand out in an awkward but necessary gesture of comradeship, apology and acceptance. Their resulting handshake is brief, but it's enough to allow him to say, "Go home, Spence. Have a drink, give one of your girlfriends a call – whatever. Just make sure that by the time you show up for work tomorrow you've remembered that we're a team. _All_ of us."

Spencer doesn't say a word, but he nods. It's enough. For now.

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	11. Night Into Day

**11 - Night Into Day**

"Go on," Grace insists, voice gentle but firm, "go home, eat something, and then go to bed. I'll see you tomorrow."

"I don't know how much time I'll have tomorrow," Boyd admits, reluctant to leave her, despite how late it already is. "I've got a meeting with the DCS leading the investigation into the shooting in the morning, and I have to tie up the loose ends with Donaldson's mob in the afternoon."

"Who is it? The DCS?"

He shrugs. "A DCS Grant from Hampshire Constabulary, so I'm told."

"Never heard of him."

"Her."

"Oh?"

"Detective Chief Superintendent Valerie Grant," he says, ignoring the undertone of knowing amusement in Grace's voice. "She's going to want to talk to you, too."

She pulls a face. "I can't wait."

"You know how I feel about jumping through official hoops, Grace, but this time…"

"…it can't be avoided?"

"Exactly." Boyd studies her carefully, attempting to reassure himself that if he leaves she will be fine. The chest tube still bothers him more than he's prepared to admit, but she seems to have gained strength with every hour that's passed, and he's beginning to dare to think that perhaps – for her – the very worst is over. "You're sure you're going to be okay if I go?"

"Quite sure," she tells him. "You can't spend every minute of the day and night hovering over me, Boyd. Besides, you're beginning to look even worse than I feel."

"Thanks, Grace." It's becoming more and more difficult to stop himself from yawning, however.

"Did you get _any_ sleep last night?"

"What do _you_ think?" Boyd stands up, more to stretch than to herald his departure. He's aware of how intently she watches him, wonders what thoughts are going through her mind. More clumsy than he intends, he perches on the edge of her bed, takes her hand in his. "As soon as I can, I'm going to take some of the leave I'm owed. We'll go away together, just the two of us."

"Really?" Grace sounds as surprised as she looks.

"Really," Boyd confirms, and he means it. "Wherever you like, just name it."

"Italy," she says promptly. "Rome."

Not the destination Boyd would have chosen, but he shrugs. "All right."

The smile his unqualified reply brings to her face is open, happy, and free from any hint of pain, stress or worry. It's the very best reward he could have wished for, makes him immediately smile back at her, and for a moment everything else – the whole Godawful mess – goes away, and it's just the two of them, and the unexpected happiness they've found together. Reserved and gruff as he is, Boyd wants to tell her just how much he loves her, how much it means to him that it's him she's chosen to include in her life, but before he can find the words, Grace says, "Now, for God's sake, Peter, go _home_. Drink half a bottle of Scotch if you have to, but please, _please_ try to get some sleep tonight."

"I will," he promises. On impulse, he lifts her hand and presses the lightest, softest of kisses against her skin. "I'll be back as soon as I can be, but if you need anything…"

" _Go_ ," she commands, mock-fierce.

He does.

-oOo-

He doesn't sleep well, of course, and when the time comes, Boyd drags himself through his usual morning routine in a heavy stupor. He shaves, he showers, he dresses; he makes coffee and eats a single slice of toast, all the time feeling just as groggy and lethargic as he did when he first hauled himself out of bed. He has to concentrate harder than usual driving to work, but at least that sharpens both his thoughts and his reflexes. He parks his car, heads for his office, grimly aware that the day ahead is going to be long and testing.

It is. DCS Grant and her attendant DS are business-like, though pleasant enough, but they are meticulous in their questioning and recording, making him take them step-by-step through the day of the shooting several times, and repeatedly clarifying every tiny detail. Boyd understands their thoroughness, inwardly applauds them for it, but it's a long and gruelling marathon, and by the time they depart, it's well past noon and his tolerance, limited at the best of times, has worn so thin that when Stella dares to tap on his office door and then ask him how Grace is the look he gives her causes a muttered apology and a rapid retreat.

He calls the hospital, is given the usual limited and largely unhelpful information on Grace's condition, though he does learn that, yes, the chest tube has been removed, and she has been moved from bed to chair. Both are pieces of information he seizes on as good news, but Boyd has little time to dwell on them, all his attention very quickly required by Donaldson's team as he guides them through the investigation that ended in the near-fatal incident at Webb's pristine flat. A gruff telephone conversation with the DAC more-or-less rounds off his less than ideal working day, but the news from New Scotland Yard is not as bad as it could be. Media interest in the case is dying down as new, even more exciting news breaks, and the steady improvement of Grace's condition has been noted by all interested parties. Boyd is left with the impression that though he is still wading thigh-high through some Godforsaken mire of protest and controversy, he is perhaps no longer in imminent danger of drowning.

Tired and stressed as he is, he returns briefly to headquarters before heading off to the hospital. It's habit as much as anything else, a much-needed touch of stability. He speaks briefly to Eve, deals with his messages, then departs, all duties conscientiously discharged. It doesn't cross his mind that he's barely eaten a thing all day, that he's being largely fuelled by hope and adrenaline. He's running on his reserves, and he doesn't even know it. If he did, well, it wouldn't matter much to him anyway. The energy he finds comes not from some inner core of strength, but rather from the unique twists and turns in his psychology that drive him in just about everything he does. He doesn't reflect on it, doesn't even think about it. He just does what needs to be done.

When he finally reaches Grace's side room, Boyd's mood is strangely buoyant. Finding her still sitting beside her bed rather than confined back to it, he greets her with a level of bright enthusiasm that earns him a baleful look and an abrupt instruction to sit down before he falls down. He does so, dragging the visitors' chair across the floor so he can sit facing her, almost knee-to-knee with her.

"I've had visitors," she informs him once he's settled. "Grant and her sergeant."

Expecting the news, Boyd nods. "Preliminary interview?"

"Something like that. They took a statement."

"And…?" he inquires.

"I told them exactly what I remembered. Is that a problem?"

He shakes his head. "Of course not. I'm really not expecting to come out of this smelling of roses, Grace. I'm fairly certain that a formal reprimand from the Assistant Commissioner is the very best outcome I can realistically hope for."

"It's a mess, isn't it?"

"It is," Boyd agrees, "but it could have been a lot worse."

"Mm." Grace doesn't sound convinced.

It's time to change the subject, no doubt about it. He says, "So… they're letting you out tomorrow, then?"

"So it seems. All being well. I've told them Celia's coming down to look after me for a few days."

Startled, he asks, "Is she?"

"Of course not." A derisive shake of the head. "She's _far_ too busy with her committee meetings and her charity work. Though she did finally bother to ask if there was anything else she could do to help."

"From a distance."

"Naturally."

Something's bothering her, Boyd is certain of it. It's not just the uncharacteristic brevity underlying her side of the conversation, or the briskness of her tone. There's something almost… reserved… about her manner, something that he recognises from the innumerable times she's taken issue with something he's said or done that didn't meet with her approval. A coolness that speaks of a sudden distance between them that he doesn't like.

"I'm sorry I couldn't get here any earlier," he tries, taking a gamble on the nature of the problem, "but it's been a long day, one way and another. Stella was asking after you. And Eve."

Her reply is polite, but less than enthusiastic. "That's kind of them."

He raises his eyebrows at her. "Okay, so now I know for certain that something's wrong. Are you going to tell me what I've done to piss you off, or shall I just on keeping guessing until I finally get lucky?"

"Not everything in this world revolves around you, Boyd."

He nods. "I'm well aware of that. But generally when you're in this kind of mood, it always seems to be something I have or haven't said or done that's at the root of it."

"What kind of mood?" Grace asks, the hint of challenge in her voice only very thinly veiled.

They haven't known each other for as long as they have without learning to hear what's not being said. Boyd isn't as adept at it as she is, but experience is a decent substitute for natural ability. He leans back a fraction, subconsciously increasing the distance between them. "I'm far too tired tonight to play games, Grace. What's the matter?"

Her reply comes after a brief, pointed hesitation. "I had another visitor today."

"Well?" he growls. "The suspense is killing me."

"I'm surprised you can't guess," Grace says. When he says nothing, she continues, "The doctor who treated me in A and E. Your wife."

He should have known. He really, really should have known. As calm as he can possibly force himself to be, Boyd says, "Ah. Well, she did introduce herself to you when you were in the HDU, but you weren't really with it."

"Your _wife_ , Boyd," she repeats. "Not, you'll note, your _ex_ -wife."

"In my defence," he starts, already knowing it's a bad idea, but continuing anyway, "I've never actually referred to her as such."

"Semantics," Grace snaps. "I assumed – "

"Yes," he interrupts, already on the defensive, "you _assumed_. We've never discussed it, and you've never asked."

A touch of outrage enters her tone. "It never once occurred to me that I needed to!"

"Oh, for God's sake…" Boyd stops, pauses, then starts again, "Look, it's not a big deal. We've been separated for _well_ over a bloody decade, and she's been living with Philip for at _least_ the last six years."

Grace shakes her head, her disapproval clear. "You're still a married man, Boyd."

"Only on paper," is his stubborn reply, "and even that won't be for very much longer."

"How very convenient." The sarcastic riposte couldn't be any sharper.

 _Patience,_ he tells himself. Grace has been through a frightening and painful ordeal, and she's entitled to be short-tempered. Irrational, even. He doesn't risk saying as much. He's simply not that stupid. Instead, he tries to explain. "We agreed not to divorce while Luke was still missing. We both felt that if he came back to find that we had… Well, neither of us thought it would be a good thing. It was for Luke, nothing more, nothing less. Now he's gone…"

Her voice is cold now. "You don't have to explain yourself to me."

Still striving for patience, Boyd sighs. "Well, we both know that's not true, don't we? Look, for what it's worth, I'm sorry. I just… It never… Oh, I'm just sorry, all right? For everything, all the bloody time. I screw things up, Grace. _You_ know it, _I_ know it. I don't mean to, it just…"

"…happens?" she suggests, still looking – and sounding – piqued.

"Yeah," he agrees, suspecting it's not the best idea, but not knowing what else to say. A dark, dawning suspicion makes him inquire, "What did she want, anyway? Mary?"

"To see how I was," Grace states, pinning him with an icy blue gaze, "and to talk."

-oOo-

 _tbc…_


	12. Two Sides of the Same Coin

**12 - Two Sides of the Same Coin**

"You believe what you like," Boyd snarls, increasing frustration making him angry, "but that's _not_ how it was. Mary's very good at making out I was a lousy father and a crap husband who couldn't keep it in his bloody trousers, but that's not how it was."

Grace raises her eyebrows. There's undisguised contempt in her voice as she suggests, "Jess Worrall?"

"Jesus fucking _Christ_ , Grace," he snaps back. "I've told you before, I never even so much as _looked_ at another woman until I caught Mary cheating on me. You've always had a problem with Jess, even though you barely know her, and I've never understood why. _She_ wasn't a homewrecker, and _I_ wasn't a serial adulterer, whatever Mary tries to claim."

Nothing in Grace's set, derisive expression changes. "Oh, I'm sure you were a model of saintly perfection, Boyd."

He gets up and starts pacing the room again. It's not easy in the confined space, but at least it's a minor distraction, something to help him control his rising temper a little. "Of course I bloody wasn't, and I've never claimed I was. There were faults on both sides, but I refuse to be condemned by you for something I _didn't_ _fucking do_."

"And yet," she retorts, "your _wife_ – I won't say _ex_ -wife because we've established that's not the case – felt it necessary to lecture me on the dangers of getting involved with you."

Boyd turns to glower at her. "And why would she do that? What _possible_ reason could she have for being so noble and altruistic, eh? Wise up, Grace."

"So you didn't walk out on her and Luke to move in with Jess, then?"

"No, I didn't. She fucking threw me out."

"With good reason, it seems."

"No," he contradicts, "not with good reason. She was sleeping with one of her exes, and when I found out and tried to beat the crap out of him, she threw me out of the house. Jess was a _colleague_ , a friend who offered to let me sleep on her sofa for a few nights."

"I see. And how many nights was it before you moved from her sofa to her bed?"

"That's none of your damn business," Boyd tells her, stalking over to the window and glaring out at the cloudy evening sky. He hates being made to feel so defensive over something that he still believes wasn't his fault, but he also knows that he's in no position to deny the inferred accusation. Too many painful, acrimonious memories are stirring, and it takes a huge effort of will not to simply storm from the room.

Behind him, Grace says, "I rather think it is. Leopards don't change their spots, Boyd. Once a cheat, always a cheat."

He doesn't look round at her. "That's a fucking ridiculous thing for a psychologist to say, and you know it."

"And you're suddenly an expert on such things, are you?"

Boyd wants to turn on her, wants to rage and shout, let his fierce temper reign and do as it will. Not so very long ago he would have done exactly that, with no regard to the consequences, but maybe – just _maybe_ – he's becoming a little more circumspect with age. Either that, or…

"You know what worries me, Grace?" he says, turning to face her slowly and carefully. "The fact that you'd choose to believe the word of a woman you don't know over that of the man you claim to love."

The words strike home. He sees it in the way her expression shifts, the way a slight frown appears as she processes the concept. He doesn't expect her to say, "I don't _claim_ to love you, Peter, I _do_ love you. But Mary…"

"Can be very plausible," Boyd acknowledges, walking back to his abandoned chair. He doesn't sit, not yet, but he refrains from starting to pace again as he continues, "I'll tell you what she's done, shall I? She's walked in here and she's played on your insecurities, and she hasn't done it because she wants to save you from being messed around by a morally bankrupt philanderer, she's done it because she made a bloody pass at me yesterday and I knocked her back."

The immediate look of blank shock on Grace's face couldn't be easily feigned, not by anyone, and least of all by her. "What?!"

The words are out, impossible to take back. All Boyd can do now is try his best to mitigate their impact, to try to reassure her. He sits down, reaches for her hands, but she pulls back, refusing to allow the contact. He stares at her, tries to will her into believing him as he says, "It's… complicated… but I swear it wasn't my fault. I don't know what the hell got into her."

"She made a pass at you? What sort of a pass?"

"The sort that couldn't be mistaken for anything else, trust me."

Narrow-eyed, Grace snaps, "Oh, this just gets better and better."

"It wasn't _me_ , it was _her_."

"Do you have any idea how ridiculously childish that sounds?"

"It's bloody _true_ , Grace. One minute we were arguing, the next…" Boyd shrugs, not wanting to explain in any further detail. "But the point is, I told her to get lost."

"Do you want a round of applause?" she snipes.

"God's _sake_ …" Glaring, he says, "She said that you felt sorry for me, that what we have isn't… love. When I called her on it, she said things wouldn't ever work out between us because I was still in love with _her_."

"And are you?" The demand is instant.

Astonished, Boyd vehemently shakes his head. "Christ, no. Of course fucking _not_. We near enough eviscerated each other in the last few months before we decided to officially separate. Our marriage became a battleground, Grace – a very dangerous and very bloody battleground. How we can even manage to exchange two civil words nowadays is a complete mystery to me."

Grace seems to gather herself together, her usual composure asserting itself as she states "It's true what they say about love and hate being two sides of the same coin, Boyd. They're both very powerful emotions, and sometimes they can get… confused."

"Not by me," he insists. "I just want to be rid of her. I told her yesterday that I wanted to start divorce proceedings."

"Which she'll contest?"

"She can't," Boyd tells her, "we've lived apart for so bloody long that it's pretty much just a formality. I don't need her consent, and I don't need her to sign anything. First chance I get, I'm applying for a _decree nisi_."

"Oh."

"That's it? That's all you've got to say?"

"What did you expect?" Grace demands. "That I'd leap up and dance for joy?"

Boyd shakes his head. "Of course not. I just thought you might be a little more… positive… about the news. Pleased about it."

"Pleased?! I'm supposed to be _pleased_ because the man I've been sleeping with, the one I had no idea was still married, smugly tells me he's going to divorce the wife I didn't even know was still in the picture?" She laughs, short and sharp. "You really are something else, Boyd."

Genuinely confused, he asks, "Why are you so angry?"

It's a mistake. Understatement.

-oOo-

"I should wring your fucking neck," Boyd growls into his phone. "Jesus, Mary – what on earth possessed you?"

"I'm sorry," she says again, but she still doesn't sound as if she means it. "I was angry, that's all. I genuinely only went to see her to find out how she was doing, but then… Oh, come on, Pete – it's not as if you don't know what it's like to lose your temper and end up saying something you regret, is it?"

"Not the bloody point," he snarls, anger making him pace the edge of the parking area even faster. "Did you think hurting Grace was a good way to hurt me? Is that it?"

"Maybe."

"Well, congratulations; you succeeded. On both counts. They threatened to call Security if I didn't leave, that's how bloody bad things got. And I'm in far too much shit with the Yard as it is."

"Well, I'm sorry."

"So you keep saying, but it's no fucking help to me, is it?" he barks, startling a passing elderly couple, who take a wide swerve around him, wearing identical expressions of apprehension and disapproval. He turns his back on them. "What am I supposed to do now?"

"Guess," Mary's voice says unhelpfully. He can hear the distant, tinny sound of background music, the muffled sound of voices. He's about to give her a very pithy reply when she continues, "For heaven's sake, Peter, you're fifty-something, not _fifteen_. A supposedly mature, confident – "

"Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Whatever," is her impatient response. "My point is that as woefully lacking as you are in social graces, even _you_ should be able to work out that a bit of charm, a few heartfelt apologies, and a bunch of flowers is what's required here."

"If you think that, you're seriously underestimating the scale of my problem."

"I've never underestimated _anything_ about you – good or bad."

Not sure what to make of her reply, Boyd scowls into the mid-distance. "Just… stay away from Grace, Mary. I mean it."

"Or you'll do what?"

"You don't want to know," he growls, and terminates the call.

-oOo-

Talking his way back onto the ward isn't as difficult as Boyd expected. The shift has changed, and though it's very late for visitors, a slow smile and brief flash of his warrant card is enough to get him past the unusually cheerful Staff Nurse who briefly accosts him. It's a tactic he's employed many, many times before with a wide variety of female receptionists, nurses and other assorted professionals, and it rarely fails. He's always been capable of being deeply charming when he wants to be, able to conceal the more abrasive side of his character long enough to get what he wants. Usually. It won't work on Grace, he knows. Not this time. Minor infractions he usually can solve with a quick grin and a brief charm offensive, but the argument that ended in his threatened eviction from the hospital… not so easily fixed.

London, though, is a big, cosmopolitan city. A place where all sorts of shops remain open late into the evening, and where a man on a mission can usually find what he wants fairly quickly at most hours of the day or night. The product of his recent expedition tucked into his jacket pocket, Boyd squares his shoulders and strolls into the side room as nonchalantly as he can. Grace has been returned to bed during his absence, and she is currently sitting propped up on pillows, flicking through a magazine in a distracted, disinterested fashion. His arrival makes her lift her head and gaze at him over the rims of her reading glasses. Nothing in her expression gives away her mood.

He stops at the foot of her bed, extracts the small plastic bag from his pocket, well-aware that the bold branding will give away the nature of his unsolicited gift. He holds it up. "I tried my best, but there wasn't an olive branch to be had anywhere. Will this do?"

"That depends," Grace says, with more than a hint of frost.

He tosses it to her in a lazy arc, not surprised when she makes no attempt to catch it. "You're right. I'm an idiot."

"Amongst other things. Some less mentionable in polite company than others." She picks up the plastic bag, weighing its contents. "What's this?"

"A peace offering."

She peers into the bag for a moment. When she looks up again, her expression hasn't changed. "It's a guide book."

"Yes," Boyd agrees.

"For Rome."

"Yes."

A long, meaningful pause precedes, "Do I want to go to Rome with you?"

He shrugs, feigning an insouciance he doesn't feel. "I don't know – do you?"

Grace makes a deliberate show of thinking about it. "I _might_ be persuaded."

"If I try really hard?"

"Obviously."

"Fair enough." Boyd regards her steadily for a few seconds. "I meant what I said, Grace – I'm not a bloody saint by any manner of means, but the past's over and done with. It's time to concentrate on the future."

Grace puts the guide book down, her fingertips tracing lightly over the impressive photograph of the Colosseum on the front cover. "You do know that you'll never be able to completely erase Mary from your life, don't you? Not without erasing all your memories of Luke."

"Yes," he says, returning to monosyllables. He's not a loquacious man by nature, not usually, and as far as he's concerned further discussion of the subject is unnecessary. Grace will either understand what the cheap gift lying in her lap really means or she won't, and as something of a gambling man, all his money's on the former option. Metaphorically speaking.

"I need to know one thing," she says, holding his gaze, "and if you lie to me, I'll know."

Boyd almost smiles. "Oh, I don't doubt that for a moment."

"Did you sleep with Mary the week after Luke's funeral?"

The question hits him rather like an unexpected bucket of ice-cold water. Completely unanticipated, and shocking in its brutal power. He stares at her, momentarily lost for words. Her gaze doesn't waver, and he knows without any doubt what's at stake – and it's a lot more than a trip to Rome. With considered determination he shakes his head. "No."

It feels like an eternity before Grace says, "All right. Thank you."

"I'm telling you the truth," he stresses, not sure what to make of her quiet, understated reaction.

"I know."

Boyd can't help frowning. "She really told you that?"

"She did."

"Fuck's bloody _sake_ … I'll – "

"No," Grace interrupts. "No, you won't. To be fair, we weren't… together… at the time, so…"

"That's hardly the _point_ , Grace." Boyd shakes his head again, glaring. "What the hell does she think she's going to achieve?"

"You can't guess?"

"She's with _Philip_. Personally, I don't like the man, but he's decent enough. Solid, reliable."

"Boring?" Grace suggests. "I think she's starting to hanker for the past, Boyd. Or, at least, for some idealised version of it. Besides, we all have a tendency to want what we can't have."

He frowns. "What, and because you and me…?"

"Exactly. You've suddenly become an attractive proposition again. Congratulations."

"Not going to happen," Boyd tells her, and he's rarely meant anything more, "and she's living in Cloud-bloody-Cuckoo Land if she thinks it is. I'm with the woman I want to be with. End of story."

A slight smile seems to tug at her lips, but she hides it immediately. "Is that so?"

"Yes," he says, suddenly confident. He moves towards the side of the bed. "Do you have a problem with that, Doctor Foley?"

"Maybe, maybe not. Depends."

"On?"

"Why don't you kiss me, and we'll take it from there?"

It's the best offer Boyd's had all day, and it certainly helps him forget – albeit temporarily – about everything that's still all sorts of fucked-up. He doesn't hesitate to take her up on her suggestion, and though he's neither a sentimental man, or an overly-emotional one, the feel of her lips on his is more than enough to erase the worst memories of the last few days. It's a gentle, undemanding kiss, but one that he knows he'll remember for a long, long time.

When he finally draws back a little, Grace says, "Rome?"

"Rome," he agrees. It's not Boyd's favourite city in the world by a long way, but in truth, he doesn't intend to see much of it.

-oOo-

 _cont..._


	13. Epilogue

**13 – Epilogue**

Boyd is standing out on the balcony in the early morning sunshine, fresh white shirt untucked and unfastened, phone to his ear, and she knows, just from the focused solemnity of his expression, that the news he's been waiting for is finally being delivered. If they're right in all their lengthy musings and thoughtful suppositions, when they return to London a severe dressing-down and rapping of knuckles will be waiting for him, but the matter won't go any further. An official reprimand, perhaps, a note or two on his service record, but not much more. He's too valuable to his cynical masters at New Scotland Yard, as prepared as he is to dirty his hands with the most difficult and contentious unsolved cases, and Grace certainly has no intention of demanding any action be taken against him.

The warmth of the Mediterranean sun is definitely helping to ease the persistent stiff ache in her shoulder, she reflects, moving round the big hotel room, idly tidying up in Boyd's wake. He's generally a fastidious creature, not given to leaving a mess behind him, but his phone rang when he was only halfway through dressing, and there are still damp towels strewn untidily across the bed. Oddly enough, she finds something about the easy domesticity of the task very soothing, an antidote to the wearing pain and stress of the last few weeks. She rarely needs to take the prescribed painkillers now, and even her still-sore ribs have stopped really troubling her most of the time. Definitely on the mend, she thinks, glancing towards the balcony again.

He's a striking figure – tall, wide-shouldered, and unquestionably good-looking. The bright sunlight makes his short, spiky hair shine a true, brilliant silver, and for a few seconds Grace simply gazes at him, sedately admiring the long, masculine lines of his body, the broad swathe of smooth bare chest on open display; the jaunty, neatly-trimmed goatee beard. There's no question that she understands Mary's apparent renewed interest in him, but she has no intention – absolutely _none_ – of giving him a moment's reason or opportunity to think too much about that. She hasn't waited for… well, for far longer than she'd freely admit to… for her chance with the man just to allow his past catch up with him and snatch him from her grasp. Boyd is not the only one with a fierce territorial streak.

Her reflective musing is interrupted by the abrupt way he drops his arm and stabs at the face of his phone with his thumb. Clearly, the call is at an end. Catching his eye, Grace raises an inquiring eyebrow. He grimaces, paces back into the room. "'Mistakes were made, lessons need to be learned', all the usual bollocks. Webb's changed his plea to guilty."

"So there won't be a trial after all." The news leaves her feeling strangely deflated. "Well, I suppose that's good news."

"Mm," Boyd agrees, placing his phone back on the elegant modern dressing table where so many of their smaller possessions seem to have gathered over the course of the last few days.

"Where does that leave you?" Grace asks.

He settles himself on the edge of the bed, stretches out his long legs. "Swallowing my pride long enough to accept a stern reprimand, by the sound of it."

"So it's over," she murmurs, more to herself than to him. It's a relief, of course, but something of an anti-climax, too. Much of what happened already feels like a bad, half-forgotten dream. Sometimes she almost forgets all of it – and then she moves a little too quickly or a little too sharply, and the resulting unpleasant twinges of pain remind her. Shaking her head, she moves to sit next to him, close enough to lean against him as she says, "You're feeling guilty again."

He turns his head to look straight at her, the dark eyes intense and unfathomable. "Believe me, I never _stop_ feeling guilty."

"We should work on that, you know, while we have some free time. Explore whatever it is that – "

"Stop," Boyd interrupts, taking hold of her hand. "I'll patiently traipse round endless galleries and museums with you, I'll even sit through bloody _La Cenerentola_ with you if I really have to, but I absolutely draw the line at giving you _carte blanche_ to psychoanalyse me."

"Why?" she inquires. "I've been doing it for years anyway."

"I usually try hard not to think about that, Grace."

"Well, if you're feeling _really_ guilty…"

There's a lot of suspicion in the way he says, "Yes…?"

Grace raises her eyebrows, looks meaningfully behind them at the large expanse of extremely comfortable bed that's now free from towels and extraneous clothes, then looks back at him without saying a single word.

"I see," Boyd says, tone grave now, "you want me to work off my debt, do you?"

Secretly delighted by how quick on the uptake he is, she gives him a nonchalant shrug in reply, then adds, "If that's how you choose to see it, Boyd…"

A spark of mischief lights in his eyes, but his expression remains otherwise serious as he says, "I thought you wanted to go to the Piazza Venezia?"

"Oh, I do," she agrees, nodding, "but I'm sure it won't kill me to wait another hour or two…"

 _\- the end -_


End file.
